


Battle of the Bands

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AND THE PROM'S TOMORROW, Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Lafayette, Other, Pining, aaron burr: outstanding heterosexual, alexander hamilton: asshole lead trumpet, classical kids are evil, equal amounts angst and fluff probably, it's a band au, thomas jefferson: jealous second violinist, weird references to other musicals the ham cast has been in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Burr, since when are you a cellist?”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>It's a high school band AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Discourse

**Author's Note:**

> note to readers: the timeline is fucked. everything is out of order, but hey, it's a band au about the founding fathers, so historical accuracy is the last thing you should be judging us for.

       “Burr, since when are you a cellist?”

       Aaron paused in the middle of trying to fit his instrument into the narrow conservatory elevator and turned to see five feet and seven inches of angry lead trumpeter barreling towards him from across the lobby.

      “Alex, can we talk about this later?” He asked, frantically reaching to press the button that would close the elevator doors, but just as they began to slide shut, a skinny brown arm shot between them, and Aaron found himself staring down into a pair of furious brown eyes.

      “How could you do this to me?” Alex asked, stepping onto the elevator and forcing Aaron to cramp into the corner. For such a short kid, Alex took up an unnatural amount of space, and all Aaron could do was sigh as he leaned his head back against the wall of the elevator.

      “Alex, I already told you I was thinking about quitting the band.”

      “I didn't think you were serious!” Alex blurted. “I had to find out from _Mister Washington_ of all people! How are we supposed to win RevFest if we don't have a guitarist?”

      “You're getting a new one.”

      “Yeah, but she's a _sophomore,"_  Alex scoffed.

      _“You_ were a sophomore last year.”

      “That's not the point!” Alex said, stepping forward, crowding Aaron even more against the side of the elevator. The doors slid closed, trapping him inside with a gigantic cello and a very pissed off Alexander Hamilton. This was definitely not the way Aaron had thought his first day of senior year at Union Heights High School was going to turn out, but it looked as if his famous luck was finally starting to run out. “Since when do you even _play_ classical music?” Alex hissed, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. Burr blinked and looked between the incensed junior in front of him and the instrument propped up against the wall.

      “Alex, you knew I played the cello.”

      “Yeah, but _classical music?”_

      “There's no such thing as a jazz cello.”

      “But you play guitar, clarinet, _and_ piano,” Alex protested. _“God, you're an overachiever.”_ He added under his breath.

      “Those are also classical instruments,” Burr said with a sigh.

      “But classical players are _evil!”_ Alex whispered, his eyes bright as a saint’s.

      “Are you sure you aren't just thinking of one particular violinist? Whose name begins with j and rhymes with reticent?”

      “Jefferson’s the worst,” Alex admitted, “but it's not just him. You're seriously going to share the stage with Lee and Seabury? What gives?”

      The elevator came to a stop on the second floor, and the doors opened. Burr lifted the cello out into the hallway, making sure not to stab Alex with the spike in the bottom, no matter how much he wanted to.

      “Look,” he said, turning to face the other boy, whose arms were crossed in front of his chest in a gesture that was far more childish than it was intimidating. “Van Buren promised me first chair. Washington never so much as lets me solo. Which do you think is going to look better on my college application?”

      Alex balked at that. “Seriously?” He asked, teeth bared so much it was nearly a growl. “This is about your _college application_ ? Jesus Christ, do you ever think about anyone but _yourself_?”

      Aaron stepped back as if he had been stung. He hated arguing with Alex - winning was impossible, and he always ended up feeling like it was his fault - but this was going a little too far.

      “Oh,” he said, “like you wouldn't do anything to get ahead, even if it meant calling in a few favors. Isn't that exactly what you've been doing since you got here?”

      Alex’s eyes narrowed, and Aaron immediately knew that he had said the wrong thing. Alex _hated_ being reminded of his scholarship status, hated even the insinuation that he had gotten a free ride, and Aaron had gone and done it anyway.

      “We'll talk about this later,” Alex said icily. _"Some_ of us have prior commitments to fulfill."

      With that, he turned and stalked down the hallway towards the jazz room, black ponytail bouncing. The other boy’s hair had gotten ridiculously long over the summer, and Aaron almost shouted a quip after him about getting it cut, but he suspected Alex wouldn't take to kindly to that. Instead he took a deep breath and turned towards the orchestra room, lugging his cello behind him.

* * *

 

      Eliza Schuyler wasn't sure what she was expecting from her first day as a member of the Union Heights Jazz Band, but it definitely wasn't this. She walked into room 300 on the second floor of the conservatory to see a lanky boy? Girl? - Eliza couldn't tell; she suspected neither - lying sprawled on top of the piano, sucking the last of a caramel frappuccino through a lipstick-stained straw. Beside them, a tall, dark-skinned senior sat ignoring the drum set in front of him. Both were listening to a short boy with a ponytail prattle on about something that seemed to require lots of passionate hand gestures.

      “He just up and quit!” He was saying. “And he didn't even apologize!”

      “It sounds like there was an issue of communication, _mon ami._ ” The boy - person? That sounded about right - said sympathetically. They had a thick French accent, and Eliza realized that this must be Gilbert Lafayette, the exchange student who had come last year and decided they liked the place enough to stay.

      “Yo, what time is it?!” The door flew open, making Eliza jump, and a skinny boy with freckles stepped into the jazz room, clarinet case under one arm and a sketchbook under the other.

      “Like, one fifty-five,” the drummer said.

      “Showtime!” The boy responded, striding over to the others as if he owned the place.

      “Dear Laurens!” The boy with the ponytail said. “Where have you been?”

      “Class doesn't start for another five minutes,” Laurens replied as he sat down at the piano bench.

      “I expect only the best from my favorite clarinet player.”

      “I'm the _only_ clarinet player,” Laurens said with a chuckle. “and if you must know,” he continued, “science ran late. Mister Franklin was going on about how to scientifically improve the odor of flatulence. He says we’re morally obligated.”

      “How does that man even manage to hold a job?” Lafayette sighed, showing off a nearly perfect cat eye as they batted their lashes dramatically. Eliza’s jealousy was suddenly all-consuming.

      “You'll never believe what Burr did!” The black-haired boy, who Eliza realized must be the infamous Alexander Hamilton if sheer rage was anything to go by, exclaimed.

      “I already heard,” Laurens said, “and yeah, it was a dick move.”

      “How is it that everyone seems to find out about these things before I do?” Alex asked, pushing his mouth into a pout.

      “Who knows,” the drummer said. “What are we going to do without a guitarist?”

      “Um,” Eliza said, taking a tentative step forward, and every head swiveled towards her; apparently she had been so quiet that none of them had even realized she was there. “I’m Eliza,” she said, hand shooting instinctively to her hair, where it twisted nervously. “I’m the new guitar player for the jazz band. Is this the right room?”

      “Of course, _ma chere,_ ” Lafayette said, sliding off the top of the piano and striding towards her. They were wearing boots with ridiculously high heels, which made them tower over Eliza, barely five-five on a good day. At least Hamilton - a trumpet player, Eliza remembered - seemed just as vertically challenged as she.

      “Oh yeah,” he said, face breaking into a large smile. “You’re Angelica’s sister, right? She's our bass player.”

      “Yeah,” Eliza said, relaxing somewhat, “and my little sis-sorry-sibling, Peggy, they're going to be playing the trombone.”

      “Are they a freshman?” Alex asked, and the way he said the word made it sound distasteful. Eliza didn't quite know how to respond, so she nodded. Alex just shrugged and said, “We'll make it work.”

      “Do not lose hope quite so soon, _mon petit jambon,_ ” Lafayette scolded, flipping their ponytail over one shoulder. “We have not even heard them play. Ah, and here we are.”

      Eliza turned just as the doors opened and the rest of the jazz band streamed in. Once the players were all together, they were much more impressive, and she found herself clutching her guitar nervously. She relaxed when Angelica strode in, carrying her electric bass easily despite its size. Peggy trailed nervously in behind her, rubbing the back of their recently shaved head self-consciously.

      “Hey, little sis,” Angelica said, unzipping her case and pulling out the bass. “I see you've met most of the gang.”

      “Yeah, they're… interesting,” Eliza replied, glancing towards the piano, where Alex, Lafayette, Laurens, and the intimidating looking drummer seemed to have congregated.

      Angelica whistled. “Yeah, Alex is something. Wait until you hear some of his compositions. Washington never lets the lyrics see the light of day, but just the music makes you feel like someone’s shouting at you. I would steer clear of him.”

      “Really?” Eliza asked, sneaking a look at the trumpeter from across the room. “He seems so nice.”

      Angelica made a sound close to a guffaw. “You stay away from that boy if you know what’s good for you. They call him ‘Tomcat’ for a reason.”

      Over at the piano, Alex snatched Laurens’ sketchbook and flipped through it. “What’s this?” He asked.

      “North American soft-shelled turtle.” Laurens responded, sounding proud.

      “What is it with you and turtles, man?”

      “I just think they’re neat.”

      Eliza found it hard to believe that either boy was capable of securing a so much as a girl’s phone number.

      “Okay, so that’s Alex,” she said. “Who’s the big guy?”

      “That’s Herc,” Angelica replied. “He looks tough, but he’s a softie. Just don’t ever call him Hercules.”

      “Duly noted,” Eliza said. At that moment, a tall, heavy-browed man in a sweater vest walked through the door. Eliza instantly recognized Mister Washington, who had sent her an email just a few weeks before asking if perhaps she was interested in moving up from the select combo and joining the band. He must have already known that the other guitar player was leaving, and Eliza wondered what had taken Alex so long to find out. She had never actually talked to Aaron Burr, but she’d never heard anyone say an unkind word about him. Then again, now that she thought about it, she had never heard anyone say a particularly _kind_ word about him either.

      “Alright, everyone,” Washington said, clapping his hands together. He had a strong, soothing voice, but the room still went immediately silent. “I’m glad to see so many familiar faces,” the teacher continued, “along with some new ones.” He looked purposefully at Eliza, who blushed and hurriedly went to take her guitar out of its case.

      “We can save the get-to-know you games for another time. I thought we’d cut right to the chase.” With that he pulled a folder out from under his arm and began handing out scoresheets to the saxophone section. Peggy took one look at their part and shot Eliza a terrified look. Eliza took her own sheet music from Mister Washington and gave it a cursory glance.

      Thankfully, it was a song she already knew; Eliza didn’t know what she would have done if she had to struggle through the changes and embarrass herself on her very first day, and she took the opportunity to peruse the rest of the band, who were already chatting and laughing with each other. She knew most of the saxophonists; one of them, Freidrich von Steuben, was in her history class, taught by the infamous Professor George, whose son Eliza thought might be in the orchestra.

      Peggy seemed to be the only freshman in the band, and Eliza wished she could go to comfort her little sibling - she still wasn’t quite used to the shift in pronouns; after all, it had only been a few months since they had actually come out, but Eliza still kicked herself whenever she accidentally said “sister” - instead of sitting down next to the piano and drums. Herc nodded at her but refused to smile, and Eliza found herself questioning Angelica’s assessment of the drummer.

      “Seriously? I know you play the saxophone,” Alex said as Lafayette brandished what Eliza recognized was a French horn.

      “Yes, but we already have a full section,” the senior replied.

      “That’s not even a real jazz instrument.”

      “Like you ever follow _les accords,_ little Alex.”

      “I’m not _that_ little.”

      “Whatever you say, _mon petit prince_ _.”_

      The song started off easy, and the horn section got through the head with only a few missed notes and uneasy dynamics. When the solo section arrived, the bari saxophone player, a short, wide kid with curly hair, stood up hopefully and took a deep breath.

      “Sit down John, you fat mother-” Alex shouted from across the room, though the rest of his sentence was lost in the baritone player’s first (and only) note. The boy turned pink and immediately sat back down.

      “That’s John Adams,” Angelica whispered, leaning over to speak into Eliza’s ear. “Ignore him.”

      “His girlfriend is Abigail Smith, right?” Eliza asked. “The girl who runs the newspaper?”

      “Don’t know what she sees in him,” Angelica murmured before turning her attention back to her music stand.

      Washington looked wearily at the trumpet section but pointed dutifully to Laurens, who stood up and began to play. He really was an excellent clarinetist, and Eliza nearly screwed up the changes as she struggled to listen and play backgrounds at the same time. The horn section applauded politely when he sat down, but the noise was lost in the first notes of Alex’s solo.

      At that point Eliza gave up on trying to focus on her own music. God, if this was what he sounded like soloing on someone else’s changes, she couldn’t even imagine what his own songs were like. Even Herc stumbled as Alex wove an improvisation that was frighteningly complex, and most importantly, _loud._ By the time it was over, Eliza’s ears were ringing, and Alex’s expressive face was almost crimson.

      “Well done, Hamilton,” Washington said, smiling paternally. “Make sure to use space.”

      Alex just shrugged, still grinning like a maniac.

      The absence of sound suddenly seemed strange, and Eliza glanced around to see who was up next only to see Washington looking pointedly at her, and no, that was definitely not part of the plan, and she considered shaking her head, but now everyone was looking at her, so she plucked out a few tentative notes, just to get a feel for it.

      About four bars in, she found a lick she liked and built on it, simply at first, something soft and lyrical to contrast Alex’s blaring attack, and when she finished, she was pleased to hear clapping from the horns. She looked up to smile at them and noticed Alex staring at her from across the room. He gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and for once she wished her complexion were more like Angelica’s if only so her blush wouldn’t be so noticeable.

      The solo section came to end, and the horns came roaring back in. Eliza looked back down at her music, but the smile stayed plastered on her face like an idiot.

      Yes, she was going to fit in here just fine.

* * *

  **CHARLES LEE (TROMBONE GUY)**

 **LEE:** are classical auditions always this shitty?

 **SEABURY:** Please, George isn’t SO bad.

 **LEE:** how is he ALLOWED to be first violin

 **LEE:** he cant even READ sheet music

 **LEE:** the best thing he can do for this class is go back to his mansion and shove money up his ass like the prick he is

 **SEABURY:** We need him for the budget.

 **LEE:** ITS SO _UNFAIR_

 **SEABURY** : Well it’s not like you would be in first chair anyway.

The only reason you’re in this class is because Washington kicked you out of jazz.

 **LEE:** WASHINGTON CANNOT BE LEFT TO BE IN CHARGE OF THE JAZZ DEPARTMENT

 **LEE:** HE IS SINGLEHANDEDLY THE WORST TEACHER IN THE ENTIRE SCHOOL

 **LEE:** Though even he isnt as bad as KING GEORGE

 **SEABURY:** Well, if you try and kick him out,

we’ll have nothing, so it’s not within your interests.

* * *

 

      James Madison was pining.

      To an outside observer, it looked like he was putting together his flute and looking over his music like the dutiful student he was, but really he was pining. Pining, pining, pining for someone he knew was never ever going to look at him the same way. It was something at which he had gotten particularly good over the last six, very long years, and the end result was that he could maintain a completely neutral expression around the person even while he was dying inside.

      The object of his (James was certain, unrequited) affection was currently shaking his violin case while he shouted.

      “This is the year, James! I am finally going to get first chair, and mister Richy Rich can just go and fuck himself. What the hell sort of a name is King, anyway? What parent does that to a child? Is that why he’s such a dick? Some sort of complex?”

      “You’ve said that before, Thomas,” James said gently, keeping his eyes fixed on the Tchaikovsky piece in front of him so he wouldn't have to look up at his friend’s ecstatic face.

      Thomas somehow always looked exponentially more attractive when he was shouting about something, which James found supremely unfair, and he had become adept at avoiding such temptations when they presented themselves. All his work was wasted, however, because Thomas grabbed him firmly by the chin and James found himself staring into a pair of burning brown eyes, which were framed by a mass of curls.

      “We’re seniors, James,” Thomas said. “This is our last chance.”

      “I know,” James said, maneuvering out of Thomas’s grip. He hated it when Thomas touched it like that. (He loved it when Thomas touched him like that).

      “You know he only gets first chair because his dad is loaded,” Thomas grumbled, flopping down in the chair next to James. “But can he even _play_? God, it makes me mad.”

      “Maybe van Buren will see the light this time,” James said encouragingly, but Thomas just groaned.

      “I’m going to _kill_ this audition,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been practicing for half my life. Not that it’ll make any difference. Oh, speak of the Devil.”

      James looked up to see a tall, light-haired (and somehow even lighter-skinned) boy with an insufferable smirk walk through the door carrying a violin that must have cost a small fortune. God, he hated King George, not that he was brave enough to say a word about it to anyone but Thomas. The boy stalked to the front row of chairs, where Charles Lee and Samuel Seabury were quietly conversing. The moment they noticed George, they dutifully stood and moved out of the way, yielding the only music stand in the room that wasn’t scratched, rusted, or plain broken to the other boy.

      The rest of the room went silent; James Reynolds took his hands off the piano, his girlfriend, Maria Lewis, glared at him but rested her cello between her knees - James suspected that the two had been fighting again - and the new first cello, a lean, dark-skinned boy with closely cropped hair, looked up from his music in confusion.

      _This must be Aaron Burr_ , James thought. Burr was technically a senior, but a year younger than Thomas and he. From what James had heard, it sounded like the boy was something of a prodigy. Too bad he would shortly find out who really ruled the Union Heights orchestra.

* * *

 

     Aaron was rapidly beginning to regret his decision. It wasn’t like he would ever admit it; no, he had worked too hard to be here to chicken out now just because of a little discomfort.

     Still, there was something profoundly unfriendly in the atmosphere of the orchestra room, though he assumed most of that was due to the palpable animosity between the cellist girl beside him, whose red-lipsticked mouth was pulled into a tight frown, and the pale boy sitting a few feet away at the piano. Aaron already knew it was going to be a struggle to sit between the two quarreling lovers for an entire year.

      Then, of course, there were the two boys sitting in the back, though while Jefferson merely looked frustrated, Madison had adopted a forlorn expression into which he seemed to lapse whenever the other boy wasn’t watching. The flautist wasn't exactly skilled in the art of subtlety, so Jefferson was either oblivious or trying very hard to ignore the other boy’s affections, though based on what he knew about the violinist, Aaron strongly suspected the former.

      He didn't have anything against the pair - Alex only hated them because they had refused to collaborate with him on a piece the year before - but the three boys sitting in the front of the room were another matter. Aaron, who always tried to remain unbiased, felt comfortable hating King George (the third in his family to hold the name, as if he belonged to some ancient monarchical line, and didn’t George just love to brag that he was related to some English king or another?), whom everyone at least strongly disliked.

      Even Seabury and Lee were resolute in their opinion of George, though neither was brave enough to say anything about it. Aaron tried to suppress a sneer as the two listened to George prattle on about his no-doubt expensive vacation to, what was it? Spain? _Bully for you,_ Aaron thought. He had spent the summer at his aunt and uncle’s house in New Jersey. How exotic.

      Though he hated to admit it, Alex had been right about Lee and Seabury; Aaron couldn’t possibly fathom how he was going to survive if he had to had to deal with them _and_ King George III in the same room together.

      All in all, the room was fraught with tension, and in addition to making his stomach queasy, it was also beginning to make his binder feel tight under his t-shirt until his ribs felt like they might give out. Aaron breathed a sigh of relief when Mister van Buren walked in, even if the man managed to be ten minutes late on the very first day of class.

      “Good morning, everyone,” he said hurriedly as he struggled to organize the new scores on the music stand in front of him. “We’ll mostly be doing auditions today, and then I’ll hand out the music for this trimester. Now…” He shuffled the papers, looking flustered, and glanced nervously around the room. His gaze landed on Aaron, and his face brightened. “Oh, and we have a new student joining the band. Everyone, this is Aaron Burr, he’ll be joining us for the rest of the year.”

       _Let’s just start with trimester,_ Aaron thought, forcing a smile as the rest of the orchestra turned to look at him. George gave him a once-over before snorting and returning his attention to van Buren. God, Aaron hated him.

      Van Buren checked his watch. “Well, let’s get right to it,” he said, no doubt having realized that his tardiness had cost them a good fifteen minutes worth of class time, though it wasn’t like auditions would take very long. The orchestra was pitifully small compared to the jazz band with only one flautist, one trombonist, one pianist, one viola, two violins, and two cellos. Aaron suspected that Maria had only joined the group because of her boyfriend, so his audition would be a breeze (not that he was planning to half-ass anything; no, he had earned this, and he was going to follow through with it if it killed him). Violins, however, were another matter entirely.

      It was common knowledge that George’s father, the well-disliked world history teacher for the junior class, channeled an outrageous amount of his funds into the school, particularly the music department, which would be nothing but two cymbals and a whole lot of shattered dreams without his support. No one knew where a private school teacher got that kind of money, but the accepted explanation was that it came from a family account (royalty, they said), and that it was the only reason his son, who was a passable violinist at best, consistently got first chair.

      God, there had never been this kind of drama in the jazz band. Washington had never given Burr solos, but that was due to some personal dislike, not literal corruption. Washington always said he played “too safe,” well, now he was playing music with no opportunity for improvisation, music that relied only on technical skill and proficiency, things at which Aaron knew he excelled.

      And yet, not twenty minutes into his first rehearsal, he found himself hating it.

      But no, he was not about to go crawling back and accept whatever scraps Washington threw his way, especially not when Alexander Hamilton would certainly regale him with “I told you so’s” and “what did I tell you’s”. Despite what the trumpeter thought of him, Aaron always made good on his promises, and he would be damned if he didn’t keep this one.

* * *

 

**SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING CLASSICAL COMPOSERS**

 

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** uUUUUUgh i HATE GEORGE SO MUCH IM GOING TO PUNCH HIM

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** FUCK HIm FUCK ORCHESTRA **I** SHOULD BE 1ST VIOLIN!!

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** HE DIDNT EVEN _*PRACTICE*!!_

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** OR TUNE OR ***ANYTHING***!!!!

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** JAMES IM GONNA STAB HIM

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** FUCK GEORGE FUCK GEORGE HE’S THE WORST

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** AHHHHHHHHGUHHHH

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** THIS WOULDVE NVR HAPPENED IN FRANCE

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** FRENCHMEN ARE SOPHISTICATED ENOUGH NOT TO ACCEPT BASIC BRIBERY AND MEDIOCRITY

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** I WAS 1ST CHAIR THERE!!!

 ** **MAD(ISON) ** **WORLD**** (YOU)** :** Thomas... please calm down...

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** : **Youre spamming me.......

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** I DIDNT WANT TO HAVE TO DO THIS BUT HE LEAVES ME NO CHOICE

 ** **MAD(ISON) ** **WORLD**** ** **(YOU)****** : **What

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** ITS PLAN BW

 **MAD(ISON) ** **WORLD**** ** **(YOU)**** : **I dont remember this

**TJEFFS THE GREAT added SHITFACE BASTARD to conversation**

****MAD(ISON) ** **WORLD**** ** **(YOU)****** :** Thomas you changed all of my contact names who is Shitface Bastard

 **SHITFACE BASTARD:** WHAT DO YOU WANT _JEFFERSON_

 **SHITFACE BASTARD:** Not ALL of us have enough time to sit around jacking off to French flags and smoking money from a silver platter.

 ** **MAD(ISON) ** **WORLD**** ** **(YOU)****** : **Oh its hamilton

**SHITFACE BASTARD is now HAMILTON**

**HAMILTON:** What the hell do you two want. Is this some kind of pisspoor attempt at hazing?

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** as much as it pains me 2 say this...

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** we need ur help

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** itll benefit ALL of us


	2. The First Amendment, or, The Right to Talk Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i can't hear you over the sound of how much i love abigail adams

      “Jefferson, please tell me you have something in this house other than Kraft Mac and Cheese?”

      “It’s the food of kings, Hamilton.”

      “You _do_ know we live in a democracy, right?”

       Jefferson just ignored him and poured the whole box of Kraft into the pot on the stove.

      “Seriously? You don’t even heat up the water first?” Alex asked, horrified.

      “That’s how you get it _al dente,”_ Jefferson explained as he turned on the burner. The kitchen, like the house on Monticello Street itself, was almost comically large - Alex couldn’t fathom when one would have the need for eight burners, two stovetops, _and_ a dutch oven - which added to the ridiculousness of the supposedly exclusive dinner Jefferson had planned for them.

      “Even pretentious European terms can’t help your cooking,” Madison said as he walked out of the pantry with a stack of napkins . Alex frowned at him (this was the most he had ever heard the other boy speak), not willing to voice his agreement, even on this one small thing. Jefferson and Madison would certainly see that as acquiescence, and that was unacceptable.

      Instead, Alex leaned against the counter and asked, “So, you mind telling me what this is all about? Your texts were a little vague in the logic and planning category.”

      Jefferson turned, looking offended. “Was I not clear?” He asked in that frantic way that told Alex he had struck a nerve.

      “Well, ‘vengeance will be ours’ is exciting and all, but it’s not particularly specific, although I take it this is about auditions?” This Alex said with a shit-eating grin; he despised corruption in the music department in all its forms, but _damn_ if it wasn’t satisfying to watch Jefferson squirm.

      “How the fuck does King George get to be first violinist?” Jefferson exploded. “I bet he can’t even _read_ sheet music. But no, van Buren is all ‘Oh, King, have first chair. King, you’re so good. King, here are my keys, go to my house and fuck my wife.’ God, who even names their kid that?”

      “White people,” Madison said, nodding sagely.

      “That’s the problem,” Jefferson hissed. “We have got to do something about this.”

     Hamilton bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to admit the other boy was right, and asked noncommittally, “Okay, so everyone hates George. Why do you need me?”

      Jefferson and Madison exchanged a glance, and the violinist sighed deeply before turning back to Alex.

      “Hamilton, you know it pains me to say this,” he began.

      “Wow, you're getting off to a great start.”

      “Shut up. Anyway, it pains me to say this, but you're a… smart kid and like, disturbingly politically minded, and I figured that if anyone knew how to fix this, it would be you. I guess what I'm trying to say is that we really need your help, and God, I feel like I'm going to throw up just saying this.” Jefferson paused for breath and looked up at Alex, who was staring at him with wide eyes, speechless. “Well?” he snapped, and Alex blinked a few times before replying,

      “Could you repeat all that? Preferably on tape?”

      “Hamilton, will you help us or not?”

      “Fine! Jesus, you know I hate George as much as you do.”

      “Oh, thank God.” Jefferson deflated against the counter, throwing one arm over his forehead dramatically.

      “Thank you,” Madison said in a sincere tone, and for a moment Alex quite forgot exactly why he hated the other boy, eventually deciding that the flautist had probably absorbed some of Jefferson’s insufferable personality through the assholish version of osmosis.

      “So,” he mused, drumming his fingertips on the countertop. “I guess now we figure out a plan.”

      “Yes!” Jefferson said, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping furiously. “I’ve written up a Google Doc of all George’s potential weaknesses and blind spots.”

      “Nah, I think I have an idea,” Alex said, pushing away from the counter and rubbing his chin in thought. Jefferson opened his mouth to say something, but Madison shushed him. “George is all about cultivating his image. He thinks he’s untouchable,” Alex continued.

     “That's exactly why we need to crush him into submission,” Thomas hissed.

      “We can't be too blatant about it,” Madison advised, and Alex agreed before he could stop himself.

      “I'm not above jeopardizing my school career for some cheap satisfaction,” Alex said, “but wouldn't it be just that much sweeter if we could beat the monopoly man at his own game?”

      Jefferson cautiously returned his phone to his pocket. “What exactly are you proposing?”

      “Well, it has to do with one of the most essential ideals upon with our country is built.”

      “The right to bear arms?”

      “I hope you know I have to physically restrain myself from slam-dunking your stupid head into that pot of boiling water over there, and no.” Hamilton grinned and gestured to the dining room table, where that morning’s newspaper still lay open. “I'm talking about freedom of the press.”

* * *

 

      “Will she listen if _you’re_ here?” Alex asked, hand hovering above the door knob.

      “Yes! Abigail and I are the best of friends.” Jefferson replied, seeming to puff up in pride like the peacock he was, complete with gaudy, eye-searing, mind-bogglingly expensive clothes. God, where did a person even _buy_ a blazer in that shade of magenta? Alex decided he didn’t even want to know.

      “Okay, but she _did_ call you a ‘disgusting mass of human filth and casual misogyny, which has gained the ability to speak, but not the ability to think,’” he responded, doubtfully raising an eyebrow.

      Jefferson huffed. “She insulted you in that article as well. There are no hard feelings, believe me.”

      “Is that so?”

      “Shut up and open the door.”

      Alex complied, revealing a cramped room that smelled of printer ink and hot paper. Inside sat an Iranian girl with a teal hijab wrapped around her head, dutifully reading over a stack of papers. In one hand she wielded a bright red pen with all the effectiveness of a sword, and every few seconds she would cross out, rewrite, or scribble in the margins of the paper. She looked up as the door creaked open, and, upon noticing who had disturbed her, her eyes narrowed and she crinkled her nose as if she was looking at an animal carcass that had been left in the sun to rot.

      Abigail Smith. The editor and head of _The Union Heights Chronicle,_ and, as Alex knew, probably the last person in the world who would be willing to help them.

      Alex and Abigail hadn’t been on the best of terms ever since Alex had publicly called out the girl’s boyfriend as an, ‘arrogant, anti-charismatic, Union Heights embarrassment,’ but the baritone player _had_ deserved it. Why the big fuss?

      “Oh, it’s _you_ _two,"_  Abigail said, turning back to her papers.

      Jefferson took a step forward, “We need -”

      “No.” Abigail responded, not even sparing a glance. “Whatever it is, no. _One_ of you is insufferable enough, but the two of you? Combined? The sheer magnitude of idiocy would cause millions of deaths, or at the very least, migraines.”

      Alex began, indignant, “But we haven’t even -”

      “Out, I have articles to edit. I do not have the time to listen to the prattlings on of a self-centered prick.” Abigail pointed to the door.

      “Which one of us are you talking to?” Alex asked.

      “Yes. Now, leave.”

      Jefferson scowled. “We’re -”

      Abigail stood up and gave them a smile that was polite but ultimately threatening. “I won’t ask you again.” She strode towards the pair and grabbed both of them by the front of their shirts before dragging them towards the door with a strength that was both impressive and frightening. _“Don’t bother me when I’m writing.”_

      “Wait -” Alex began.

      The door slammed shut.

      Jefferson turned around, face flushed indignantly. “Abigail - you better open this door or I’ll-”

      The door clicked.

      “Why didn’t she listen to me? What did I do?” Alex said, wildly brandishing his arms.

      _“You_ insulted her boyfriend, of course she wouldn’t listen.” Jefferson said, whipping around to face Hamilton.

      Alex balled his hands into fists, “Well _you_ hate Adams, of course she’d hate you, it’s _your_ fault she didn’t -”

      “If we can’t get rid of George because of your fits of passion whining about Adams, then I am literally going to stab you and mount your head on my wall!”

      Before Alex could even open his mouth to spout off a witty retort, the door creaked open.

      “You’re trying to get rid of King George?” Abigail asked, peeking her head out of the door.

      The two looked at each other, frozen in their feud.

      Alex spoke first. “...Yes?”

      Abigail opened the door. “So, what were you trying to say earlier?”

      Jefferson gave his best/worst asshole smile, the kind that made Alex want to repeatedly stab him with one of those plastic cafeteria sporks until the other boy resembled a slice of Swiss cheese, and announced, “We need you to publish this article slandering his name.” He brandished two sheets of neatly typed, double-spaced paper with a dramatic flourish, and held them out to Abigail like an offering.

* * *

 

      Angelica Schuyler counted the minutes until class was over and frowned when she discovered that only thirty seconds had passed since she last checked the clock. She considered the possibility that her math was off. After all, there was a reason she was stuck in an Econ class with Mister Smith (who insisted that his students call him Adam because it ‘put them on a more equal footing’) instead of suffering through AP Calculus, but no, she hadn’t failed basic addition and subtraction, and yes, there really was another five minutes left in class.

      Mister Adams was droning on about capitalist theory, and no matter how much she tried, Angelica couldn't find it in herself to care. Instead she scanned the classroom, taking note that all the other students seemed just as bored as she was, and not all of them were as good at hiding it. It was second to last period on a Monday, and for most students the next class meant art and an opportunity to slack off (unless of course they were in band, in which case they would be rudely shocked into alertness by Alex’s stress-fueled announcements about RevFest, which, as Angelica had already reminded him, wasn't until April - not that it made an ounce of difference to the junior).

      One girl in the back row was looking at her phone under her desk, not even pretending to pay attention. Angelica recognized her as Maria Lewis, a sophomore, but also something of a math prodigy. Unsure what to do with a fifteen-year-old who should have been but was prohibited from taking a college course, the school had stuck her in twelfth grade Econ, where she was most likely suffering.

      As Angelica watched her, Maria’s perpetually red mouth tightened into a dangerous frown, and her brows lowered over thickly-lashed eyes. Based on what she knew about the other girl, Angelica guessed whatever the problem was, it probably concerned Maria’s boyfriend, James Reynolds, who during his time had Union Heights had garnered a reputation even amongst the jazz kids. Angelica winced sympathetically as Maria forcefully shoved her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and glared at the board.

      “All right, it looks like I have to let you go,” Mister Smith said, glancing down at his watch. He sounded disappointed, as he did every class, like he could have gone on talking about trickle-down economics until the world ended.

      Maria was out of her seat as quick as a flash, and Angelica watched uneasily as the other girl stalked off down the hallway. She shouldered her backpack and offered up a prayer that James Reynolds would at least live to see another day.

* * *

 

      Abigail twirled the red pen in her right hand and turned to look at the two eager boys leaning over her desk. “Well, that was terrible. I can’t publish this.”

      “What?”

      “This is one of the most hypocritical pieces of writing I’ve read in my entire life,” Abigail replied, shoving the two sheets of paper across the desk to Jefferson. They were practically dripping with red ink.

       _“Hypocritical?_ _”_ Jefferson echoed disbelievingly.

      “Well, yeah.” Alex said, after a moment, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Jefferson, but your family is just as obscenely rich as George’s,” Alex said. _Christ, haven’t you ever heard of privilege?_ He thought for a moment before concluding, _Probably not._

      “Yeah, but I don’t use it to bribe my way to first violin!” Jefferson protested.

      “Wow, you want a medal?” Abigail asked, fluttering her eyelashes in mock praise. “The, _‘not-as-much-of-a-jerk-as-you-could’ve-been’_ award? The _‘barely-decent-human’_ ribbon? Someone else writes this, or I don’t publish it.”

      Alex grinned, “I’ll -”

      “No. I’m not letting this article take up the entire paper, _Hamilton.”_

      “I can cut it if it's too long!”

      “You literally turned in six pages for a _paragraph_ assignment in English last week. Find someone else, or I’m not publishing it.”

      “I thought you were on our side!” Jefferson whined.

      “I have standards, Thomas. Not like you’d know anything about those. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an article to write about why the school dress code is misogynistic and undermines female education.” She gestured to the open door. “I'd say see you later, but, to be perfectly honest, I would rather throw myself off a bridge.”

      Jefferson shot Hamilton a helpless glance, but even the fiery first trumpet knew when he was beat. With a final, long-suffering sigh, he turned to leave.

      “Oh, and Hamilton?”

      Alex turned around eagerly, but Abigail was already bent over her desk, ubiquitous red pen flying.

      “Close the door on your way out.”

* * *

 

**OPERATION FUCK GEORGE**

**MAD(ISON) MAX (YOU):** Can we change the group chat name its making me very uncomfortable

 ** **MAD(ISON) MAX (YOU)** :** I understand what youre going for but its really not working

**TJEFFS THE GREAT changed chat name to GEORGE IS THE WORST**

**TJEFFS THE GREAT:** UGH i cant BELIEVE she rejected MY ARTICLE

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** : **Well i mean

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** :** I can kind of see where shes coming from

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** :** Not that your article is bad or anything!

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** :** More that itd be an easy way for george to ignore you

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** : **I liked your piece

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** at least SOMEBODY here has some common sense

 **MAD(ISON) WORLD ** ** **(YOU)****** : **Are you talking about thomas paine’s new article?

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** NO

 **TJEFFS THE GREAT:** lets just get to orchestra

* * *

 

      Aaron Burr had, as usual, gotten to orchestra early and so was already warming up his cello when Maria Lewis walked in, looking for all the world like she was on her way to assassinate a world leader. Aaron offered her a polite smile; he didn't have anything against his fellow cellist, and he considered it a sound policy to treat everyone with respect until they gave him a reason not to.

      But Maria didn't so much as glance at him. She stalked right up to the piano and said, “James,” so icily it made Aaron’s blood run cold.

      James Reynolds, who had been mindlessly playing arpeggios, turned and gave his girlfriend a brief smile. “Oh, hey. How was your-” There was a terrific smacking noise as Maria’s well-manicured hand connected with her the boy’s face, and Aaron was so shocked he didn't think to say anything until Maria shoved her phone at Reynolds, who was holding his crimson cheek and grimacing, and demanded,

     “Can you please explain to me this comment on Catherine’s Instagram picture?”

      “Oh my God, I think I'm bleeding,” Reynolds said, sounding incredulous. He took his hand away from his face, and, sure enough, the band of one of Maria's rings had caught on his lip and scraped it raw. The sight of blood reminded Aaron that he should probably be doing something about this if he didn't want to be considered an accessory to homicide, and he laid his cello gently aside.

      “Oh please,” Maria said acidly. “I know you hooked up with her at her brother’s bar mitzvah, you piece of shit.” She lunged forward with a snarl only to yelp as Aaron caught her around the waist and dragged her away from the piano. “Let go of me!” She shouted, squirming against him and swinging her arms with their killer nails.

      “Do you promise to calm down?” Aaron asked calmly despite the elbows jutting repeatedly into his ribs.

      “In your dreams,” Maria growled, and Aaron winced as he felt the girl’s fingernails rake down his forearms, though hopefully his skin was dark enough that no one would notice the scratches or ask where they came from, though he could always blame the cats. In one final act of defiance, Maria braced herself against the floor and brought up one foot, the heel of which connected between Aaron’s thighs just on the seam of his pants. Aaron sighed, waited for Maria to go limp, and let her go.

      She grumbled and pushed a strand of hair out of her flushed face. “Jesus,” she said, glaring at Aaron. “You must have balls of steel.”

      Aaron grinned at her. “Better.”

      “Okay, what’d I miss?”

      Aaron turned to see Jefferson standing in the doorway with his bright orange scarf thrown over one shoulder, looking thoroughly confused. Aaron glanced around at his rumpled clothing, Maria's red cheeks, and Reynolds with his still-bleeding lip.

      “Absolutely nothing,” he said brightly. “Just a slight misunderstanding, is all. It's all cleared up now.”

      Jefferson narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but before he could ask any questions, Madison was hurrying in after him.

      “We're late, we're late!” The flute player said, racing past Lee and Seabury, who had been watching the whole debacle unfold in horrified silence.

      “Cool it, Maddy,” Jefferson groaned. “Van Buren’s not even here yet.”

      “He's never here,” Lee grumbled, only for Seabury to elbow him sharply in the side.

      George walked leisurely through the door, sucking a smoothie loudly through a straw. He took one look at the disheveled orchestra, raised his eyebrows, and moseyed along to his seat. Aaron cleared his throat and put his hand on Maria's shoulder.

      “Could you help me with something?” He asked quietly. Maria frowned at him but allowed him to lead her towards the doorway. “You too, James,” he called over his shoulder. Reynolds looked up, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, and shuffled after. Once the door to the orchestra room had slammed closed Aaron whirled around and hissed, “What the hell is wrong with you two? Are you trying to get expelled?”

      “Are you serious?” Reynolds asked, pressing a hand against his injured face. “ _She_ attacked _me!_ ”

      Aaron sighed deeply and rubbed his temples. Despite his best attempts to remain uninvolved in gossip, he knew more about James Reynolds than he would have liked, and he was terribly tempted to tell the other boy, _you probably deserved it, you bastard,_ but he refrained. “Can you both just promise me that this class won't turn into the WWE anytime soon? Because I would hate to have to referee that.”

      “No one asked you to step in,” Maria grumbled, but her posture denoted at least some level of reluctant acceptance.

      “I have a little something called obligation,” Aaron said primly. He gave Reynolds a pointed glare before adding, “You may have heard of it.”

      The other boy frowned but knew better than to complain, and Aaron smiled tightly before walking back into the orchestra room moments before Mister van Buren burst through the door, late as always.

* * *

  **MADISON**

 **MADISON:** Hey...

 **ABIGAIL (YOU):** Did Jefferson put you up to this? Just because you have a crush on the guy doesn't mean you have to do all of his dirty work.

 **MADISON:** I DONT HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM

 ** **ABIGAIL (YOU)** :** Sure.

 **MADISON:** IM SERIOUS

 **MADISON:** THOMAS DIDNT SEND ME OR ANYTHING

 **MADISON:** He really didnt i swear

 ** **ABIGAIL (YOU)** :** Listen, you’re slightly more tolerable than Jefferson and Hamilton, but that’s not saying much. I’m still not publishing.

 **MADISON:** Im not asking you to publish it

 **MADISON:** Im asking you to write it

 ** **ABIGAIL (YOU)** :** What?

 **MADISON:** Well you are right about thomas’ article (though he doesnt want to hear that), but if you wrote it any of the ‘hypocrisy’ arguments wouldnt be valid

 **MADISON:** And you are the head of the newspaper club so you clearly have writing experience

 **ABIGAIL ** **(YOU)**** :** Flattery will get you nowhere, Madison.

 **MADISON:** I swear thomas didnt put me up to this

 **MADISON:** George is corrupt and everyone hates him and the school would be better off without him

 **MADISON:** Please work with us this one time, we already have hamilton

 **MADISON:** That in itself is a miracle

 **MADISON:** Abigail? Are you there

 **MADISON:** Please respond

 **ABIGAIL ** **(YOU)**** :** I was thinking.

 **ABIGAIL ** **(YOU)**** :** Alright, you’ve made your point.

 **ABIGAIL ** ** **(YOU)****** :** I’ll write it, and it will be greater than anything Jefferson’s “brain” could force out.

 **ABIGAIL ** ** **(YOU)****** :** Next comes out in three weeks. Look in the editorials.

 **ABIGAIL ** ** **(YOU)****** :** By the way, tell Jefferson to stop wearing those gaudy clothes, he looks like a moron. I nearly burned my eyes looking at the idiot.

* * *

 

      “Maddy! Have you read this?”

      James looked up from the history project he really should have gotten done over the weekend to see Thomas racing through the doorway of the school café, where the two of them often spent their free blocks. The violinist was clutching a fresh copy of _The Union Heights Chronicle_ and had a miles-wide grin plastered across his face. James decided that he had been wrong before; Thomas was a hundred times more attractive when he was ecstatic than when he was angry, and wasn’t that just supremely unfair?

      Thomas dropped the newspaper on the table next to James’s laptop and turned the first page with a flourish. “She actually wrote an editorial!” He exclaimed, jabbing a finger excitedly at the excessively long article printed under ‘Abigail Smith, Editor.’ “It’s _scathing,”_ he breathed. “George is lucky he’s loaded, because he’s going to need to find himself a damn good burn doctor.”

      “Oh yeah,” James said, allowing himself a satisfied smile as he pulled the paper across the table. “‘Economic Inequality and Academic Opportunity at Union Heights,’” he read. “A little wordy, but it gets the job done.”

      Thomas was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I guess she finally came around,” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “I wonder what convinced her?”

      James cleared his throat, coloring slightly (not that anyone would be able to tell), and replied, “Well, I texted her asking if she would write it herself. I said please and thank you, which was probably a novelty compared to you and Hamilton.”

      Thomas was staring at him, looking dumbstruck, and James decided that he might as well scrap all his careful categorization because, now that he thought about it, there really wasn’t an emotion or expression that made Thomas _unattractive,_ so he would just have to suffer. Eventually the other boy’s face broke out into a wide grin, and he exclaimed, “James, you’re brilliant.”

      “I just asked politely. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.”

      “Oh my God,” Thomas said, still shaking his head incredulously. “I could kiss you!”

      “Okay,” James replied before he could stop himself.

      “Sorry, what?”

      “I said, ‘oh, hey’ look at this paragraph…”

      Thomas bent over the table to get a better look, and James silently cursed himself. That had been a close call. Much too close for comfort.

      “‘As a community that prides itself on honesty and integrity,’” Thomas read, “‘we cannot allow this blatant bribery and favoritism to continue to tarnish our learning environment. Wealth and socio-economic status should in no way determine the opportunity of students, whether it be in the classroom, on the soccer field, or the stage. No longer must we stand for this corruption, especially when it comes from the same people we are meant to trust with our education.’ Wow.” Thomas took a deep breath and looked up at James. “You know what this means, right?”

      “Oh, yes,” James replied with a flashy grin. “We are going to be in so much trouble.”

* * *

 

 _@sseabury_ **Seabury**

Some people cause pointless trouble that benefits nobody. I want the Union Heights community to know this article does not speak for me.

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

 _@sseabury_ DON’T YOU VAGUEBLOG ABOUT ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT WE ALL KNOW THAT ARTICLE IS NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

 

 _@sseabury_ **Seabury**

 _@adotham_ Pointlessly attacking fellow students benefits nobody,  & it jeopardizes the entire conservatory.

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

 _@sseabury_ DON’T YOU CARE ABOUT UNFAIR ADVANTAGES THAT WEALTHY STUDENTS HAVE? YOU SELF CENTERED FUCK PEOPLE SHOULDN’T BE DESIGNATED FOR SU(1)

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

CCESS WHILE PTHERS HAVE TO WORK THEIR WAY UP FROM NOTHING TO SURVIVE YOU POMPOUS ASS. IT IS FRANKLY A DISGUSTING SYSTEM AND I WILL NOT BE(2)

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

SATISFIED UNTIL THIS ECONOMIC GAP IS BROKEN DOWN AND AMERICA CAN TRULYBE CONSIDERED A LAND OF EQUAL OPPORTUNITY (3)

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

IN SUMMARY: FUCK YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR _@sseabury_ (4)

 

 _@aburr_ **AARON BURR**

 _@adotham_ Alexander, please.

 

 _@sseabury_ **Seabury**

 _@adotham_ You’re jeopardizing the generous contributions to the school, ones that we need.

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

 _@sseabury_ Oh PLEASE can’t you see this school is jsut a small part of the larger problem america and other “first world countries” Face??(1)

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

If we can’t solve this in in a PRIVATE SCHOOL then HOW are we suppsed to fix AMERICA?? _@sseabury_ (2)

 

 _@sseabury_ **Seabury**

 _@adotham_ *just *supposed. We’re not trying to fix America. Don’t endanger our conservatory budget for your idealistic nonsense.

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

 _@sseabury_ DON’T REHASH THE SAME TWO POINTS AND NOT DEBATE WITH ME WHY SHOULD SOME RICH JACKASS REGULATE WHO SUCCEEDS???

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

AND IS YoUR HEAD TOO FAR UP YOUR ASS TO SEE THE BIGGER PICTURE?? god my DOG could debate better than _@sseabury_

 

 _@_horsefucker_ **HERCULES MULLIGAN**

oh my god

 

 _@freshbaguette_ **MarieJosephPaulYvesR**

 _@adotham_ tu n’as pas un chien

 

 _@adotham_ **A DOT HAM**

 _@freshbaguette_ EXACTLY


	3. Fuck Hamilton and Pipes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaron burr: outstanding heterosexual

**AUTHOR WHO HATES ME**

**AUTHOR WHO HATES ME** : HAMILTON, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK!

 **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : WHAT NOW

 **AUTHOR WHO HATES ME** : I’M IN TROUBLE WITH THE SCHOOL BOARD! THE NEWSPAPER CLUB HAS TO HAVE A FACULTY ADVISOR NOW AND GUESS WHO “VOLUNTEERED!”

 **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : mr george

 **AUTHOR WHO HATES ME** : EXACTLY! THIS FUCKING PRICK IS JUST ASKING FOR SOMEONE TO BRING HIM TO TASK!

 **AUTHOR WHO HATES ME** : THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!

 **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : trust me, when this is all over, it’ll be worth it

 **AUTHOR WHO HATES ME** : I DON’T CARE! I CAN’T GET MY ARTICLE ABOUT THE DRESS CODE PUBLISHED NOW BECAUSE OF THIS PREJUDICED SLICE OF BREAD!

 **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : we’ll make it up to you

 **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : for now i recommend punching jefferson as payback

 **AUTHOR WHO HATES ME** : I WILL.

* * *

 

      “You know, considering the fact that we go to school with a lot of strong women, this may not be one of your better ideas,” James said, levelling his gaze at the boy sitting across the lunch table from him, who was dressed, rather incongruously, in a black #MENINIST hoodie and one of his ubiquitous scarves.

      “Nonsense,” Thomas replied, tossing his hair over his shoulder as he picked at that day’s selection of mystery meat. “It’s Halloween. They’ll understand I’m being ironic.”

      “You do know there’s a difference between intent and interpretation, right?” James asked, tugging absent-mindedly at a pipe cleaner antenna, really the only recognizable part of what James had decided was the most inoffensive costume he could think of. Thomas had taunted him for dressing up “like every high school girl with no imagination,” to which James had replied, “But bumblebees are so cute, though,” and even Thomas hadn’t been able to argue with that.

      James glanced at the table in the far corner, where Hamilton, Eliza Schuyler, and John Laurens were, predictably, dressed up at Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, and Princess Leia. In that order. James found himself absurdly jealous of the clarinet player’s hairstyling abilities. Hercules Mulligan had his feet up on the table and was patronizing the others for what he called ‘glorified dress-up.’

      “Cool it, Herc,” Laurens said. “I know you have a movie-accurate Wedge Antilles X-Wing pilot flight suit stashed somewhere in your closet.”

      Mulligan sputtered at this, but Hamilton was already leaning across the table, jabbing a finger in the drummer’s face. “You tryin’ to steal my girl here?” He asked, jerking a thumb at Eliza, who blushed into her sandwich.

      “Who says Wedge and Luke are even a thing?” Laurens asked, grinning. “I seem to remember the movie ending very differently.”

      “It is in the, how you say, subtext,” Lafayette said.

      “Oh, dear, we’ve corrupted you,” Laurens replied with mock horror.

      “What exactly are you supposed to be?” Mulligan asked, turning in his chair to take in the Marquis’s blonde wig, wand, boots, and paper maché bodysuit, which looked suspiciously like a loaf of bread. Lafayette just shrugged.

      “I couldn’t decide,” they said.

      “I don’t even want to know what the choices were,” Mulligan replied with a shudder.

      “From the looks of it I’d say it was a toss-up between Sailor Moon and a baguette,” Hamilton said, narrowing his eyes, “though I could be wrong.”

      Lafayette grinned, revealing two rows of white teeth. “You are remarkably perceptive, _mon petit sandwich.”_

      “Are you just referring to me as foods now?”

      “What can I say? _Tu es très delicieux.”_

* * *

 

      Abigail Smith paused with her pen hovering precariously over a dangling participle. Thomas Paine, the assistant editor, looked up at her from his own article and raised an eyebrow. “Is everything okay?”

      Abigail was wearing a frightening accurate costume of Gloria Steinem, a person Thomas Paine hadn’t known existed until Abigail had walked into the clubroom half an hour ago. She placed her pen on the desk, eyes narrowing, nose scenting the air like a wolf.

      “Jefferson’s being an asshole. I can feel it.” Abigail stood up, chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. No, no - keep writing.”

      Thomas Paine had learned not to question Abigail’s almost supernatural ability when it came to identifying every fuckboy in a three-mile radius, which was saying something. He questioned nearly everything else, and with such ferocity that his AP Gov teacher had kicked him out of no less than six classes for starting passionate debates on the effectiveness of modern government, but he had at least enough common sense not to question Abigail Smith when it came to… Well, pretty much anything.

      Abigail swept out of the office seconds before one of the staff writers, Mercy Warren, walked in, straightening her witch’s cap. “Nice costume,” she said sarcastically to Thomas, who was dressed in a disappointing t-shirt and pair of slacks.

      “I’m a homicidal maniac,” he replied. “We look just like everyone else.”

      “Ha ha,” Mercy replied, going to set up at her desk. “Have you seen Thomas Jefferson? The piece of shit thinks he can get away with wearing a meninist hoodie. I guess he’s trying to be ironic, but it is _so_ not working out.” She sat down primly and took out her laptop. “Don’t tell Abigail. She’ll flip.”

      At that exact moment, someone in the building let out a blood-curdling scream, which came from the vague direction of the cafeteria. Thomas winced sympathetically and turned to Mercy, who was staring at him with wide eyes. “I’m sure she already knows.”

      Precisely five minutes later, Thomas Jefferson lay in the nurse’s office with a throbbing headache, a shredded hoodie, and a bruise large enough to match his ego. Five minutes after that, Abigail plopped down back in her chair in the Newspaper Club, and sighed.

      “I don’t know why I ever agreed to help that jerk,” she said airily, still looking far too put together for a girl who had just engaged in attempted murder.

      “It’s not all bad,” Thomas said, knowing that talking to Abigail in this state was similar to handling a rabid fox. “I mean, the article was great. I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

* * *

 

      Of course it hadn’t been worth it, James mused as he watched George massacre a Wagner piece while Thomas sat fuming in his (second) chair, gliding easily through his own part. It had been almost two weeks since Abigail had published the article, and aside from a few raised eyebrows, the whole ordeal had accomplished exactly jack shit. It could be that the editorial was too vague, though anyone with a half a brain could see who Abigail was talking about, but it was more likely, James mused, that the administration had taken one look at the piece and decided to collectively ignore it. The principal, Martha Washington, was married to the director of the jazz band, so she most definitely had prior obligations towards the music budget, though James couldn’t imagine Principal Washington letting her personal commitments get in the way of anything. The end result was the same: King George was allowed to continue his assault on their eardrums from the safety of his first chair, Thomas was still miserable, Maria and James Reynolds were still at each other’s throats most of the time, and James was, of course, still pining, though that came as no surprise.

      He sincerely hoped the jazz band was doing better than they were.

* * *

       “What do you mean, you’re _leaving?”_

      “Alex, it's just one trimester.”

      “You're abandoning the band! Abandoning _me!”_

      “I think you're being a _little_  overdramatic.”

      “What is going on?” Eliza whispered as she put her bag down next to the piano.

      “Laurens is taking the trimester off to do art,” Angelica replied tiredly. “Alex is understandably distraught.”

      “Oh no, he's leaving?” Over the past two months, Eliza had gotten to know the boys in the band well enough, and though she wouldn't say she was friends with any of them (except Hamilton, of course), she would miss having Laurens around.

      “He'll be back in time for RevFest,” Angelica said dismissively. “Alex is just overreacting.”

      The lead trumpeter didn't seem quite so blasé.

      “How could you do this to me?” He pleaded, one hand fisting in Laurens’ sweatshirt.

      “Settle down, baby girl,” the other boy replied, giving Alex an affectionate pat on the back. Eliza cocked her head to one side.

      “Did Alex and John ever…?” She began, but Angelica was already vigorously nodding.

      “That ship has _sailed,_ honey,” she said. “Annoyed the shit out of all of us. Can you imagine dating your brother?”

      “I can kind of see your point,” Eliza muttered, but there was no time in which to press further, as Mister Washington was walking through the door, and there was suddenly a flurry of sheet music, notes, and commentary. By the end of class, Eliza’s ears were ringing from her proximity to the drumset, and she had almost forgotten all about the drama from earlier. It wasn’t until she noticed Alex forlornly putting away his trumpet long after the rest of the band had left that she remembered.

     “Hey,” she said, shouldering her guitar and walking over to the piano, where Alex had piled his sheet music in an alarmingly disorganized fashion. Alex was messy, but it was always an organized chaos; this was just worrying. “Are you okay?” Eliza asked, and Alex looked up sharply, a strand of untucked black hair falling across his face.

      “Oh, yeah,” he said, brushing the hair behind his ear. “I just wish Laurens had told me earlier instead of, you know, springing it on me like that.”

      “It was a little insensitive,” Eliza replied, “especially after what Burr did. Have you talked to him at all?”

      Alex snorted. “Aside from him trying to hijack my Twitter war with Seabury, no.”

      “You should probably talk to him,” Eliza said. “The silent treatment isn’t fair to either of you.”

      Alex let out a long suffering sigh. “You’re probably right. I’ve just been so stressed out about RevFest, and now Laurens is leaving…”

      “It’s just for the trimester; we’ll be fine. Speaking of the competition, are you writing a composition for it? I heard that was a special category for large ensembles. Seemed like something up your alley.”

      Alex’s face brightened at the mention of music, and he replied excitedly, “Oh yeah, it’s just in the early stages, but I think it’ll be good. I can write in a solo for you if you want.”

      Eliza blushed and shouldered her backpack. “I’ll think about it, yeah. I can’t wait to hear whatever it is you come up with. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave Alex another smile before picking up her guitar and starting for the door.

      “Oh, Eliza?”

      “Yeah?” She turned to see Alex leaning awkwardly against the piano, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out this weekend? There’s a new coffee place that just opened up, and I hear it’s pretty good. I mean, I don’t know if you like coffee or anything, they have other stuff, like hot chocolate, but...”

      Eliza frowned, confused. “I like hot chocolate. Do you want me to… help you with the composition or something?”

      Alex laughed, but it was so loud and strained it sounded more like a bark. “Uh, no,” he said, picking absently at the zipper of his trumpet case. “Just, like, coffee. And things.”

      Eliza blinked. “Like a date?”

      “Yeah,” Alex replied, voice cracking slightly. “Like that.”

      Well. Surprised would have been an understatement, but displeased would have been a lie. Eliza took a moment to register the fact that, yes, Alexander Hamilton was asking her out, like an honest-to-God normal human being, and he had done it in the most delightfully unskilled manner imaginable. And Oh God, he was waiting for an answer. She pretended to think about it for a moment so she could watch Alex suffer in anticipation for a little longer, though she couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her face. “Okay, sure,” she said finally. “I’ll text you a good time.” With that she turned to go, if only so Alex couldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing her giggle in delight.

* * *

 

      Aaron Burr was feeling like a god when Alexander Hamilton walked into the nurse’s office. The god in question was not the Christian God, no, Aaron was too much of a staunch atheist for that, _no_ religion being the only religion with which he felt he could safely identify. He was feeling, now that he thought about it, very similar to Zeus, especially when said thunder God had been inclined to undergo the cranial equivalent of a cesarean section in order to free the goddess Athena from his skull.

      To put it simply, it felt as if someone had taken a hammer and chisel to his forehead. But Aaron waxed poetic when he was in pain.

      “Woah, what happened to you?” Alex asked in a voice that was far more congested than usual, and Aaron craned his neck up, wincing at the movement. Alex waved at him with his left hand, the other occupied as it was with holding a crumpled ball of blood-stained paper towels against his nose, which seemed to be in a different position from when Aaron had last seen him.

      “What happened to _you_?” He asked, removing the ice pack from his forehead and propping himself up on his elbows.

      “I asked you first,” Alex replied, going to sit on the cot opposite from the one where Aaron lay. Aaron groaned and lay back down; his head hurt too much to argue.

      “There's an exposed pipe somewhere on the way to my locker,” he explained. “This is the second time I've walked into it this week. The nurse thinks I might have a mild concussion.”

      Alex gave a low whistle. “I'd say you should look where you're going,” he said, “but that would be hypocritical.”

      Aaron looked at him sideways. “Yeah, you mind telling me why your face currently looks like a Picasso?”

      “Rude,” Alex said, rolling his eyes. “I fell down the conservatory stairs. I was distracted!” He added when Aaron's eyes widened.

      “What could have possibly distracted you so much that you failed to notice the stairs you have been walking up and down practically every day for the last three years?”

      Somewhere, underneath all the blood and paper towels, Alex blushed. “Well,” he said, sounding proud, “do you know Eliza Schuyler?”

      “I know of her. Sophomore, family's loaded, got a Rottweiler for an older sister.”

      Alex nodded. “That's the one. I may or may not have asked her out for coffee.”

      Aaron took a moment to comprehend the sentence, wondering if maybe all if this was just a hallucination brought on by his head injury. “You asked a Schuyler sister out on a date?” He asked.

      Alex nodded vigorously.

      “Planning on taking out a massive student loan, are we?”

      “No!” Alex replied, indignant. “I really like her. And she must like me too; she said yes.”

       _Oh._ Aaron wondered if the pain in his stomach was just nausea from the concussion, but this felt more like a sucker punch. Before he could question anymore, the door to the office proper opened, and Lucy Knox, the school nurse, poked her head into the waiting room.

      “Oh dear, let me take a look at that,” she said, reaching to tip Alex’s chin up. “I'm afraid you may have to go to the hospital for this. Come on in and I'll give them a ring.” Normally the first call would be to the student’s parents, but they all knew there was no one to call. Aaron wondered silently where Alex would go once the school year was over: back to the same foster family, or had he moved on for what must have been the sixth time in three years?

      Alex dutifully stood and followed Mrs. Knox into her office. Before closing the door, he turned to Aaron and mouthed, “Worth it.”

      Aaron gave him a half-hearted thumbs-up.

      Jesus. Alex Hamilton and Eliza Schuyler. ‘Unexpected’ didn't cover the half of it. Aaron regretted missing what had mostly been months worth of awkward encounters and pleading text messages. He remembered how Alex and Laurens had both badgered him day and night about how much they were pining and later how much they desperately wanted to break up. The ordeal had included a lot of screenshots for posterity on Aaron's part. It occurred to him that maybe he didn't miss the drama so much as he did the actual correspondence; side from a few class-related emails and awkward hellos in the hallway, he hadn't talked to Alex since the beginning of the school year.

     And now there was this. Aaron didn’t know why he was so surprised; Alex had a reputation, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, for being reliable with the ladies, and Eliza was naive enough that the whole thing didn’t seem like too much of a stretch.

     So why did he somehow feel even worse than he had when he walked in here, head throbbing and vision reeling? It wasn’t like he and Alex were even _friends_ , for God’s sake. Not since Aaron had gone and… well, he wouldn’t say that it had been his fault. Most things weren’t, when it came down to it. But that must be the explanation. He was just feeling plain old guilty, for quitting the band, for not talking to Alex (hadn’t Alex told him he was his first friend in the country? Christ).

      It had nothing to do with that absurd date with that absurd Schuyler sister. That was just silly.

      Aaron pressed the ice pack against his forehead and let out a long groan.

* * *

 

_Eliza Schuyler has changed her relationship status to IN A RELATIONSHIP with A DOT HAM_

**ANGELICA SCHUYLER**

                                    FUCK

* * *

 

**COMMA**

**COMMA:** Alex i swear to god if you hurt eliza i will hunt you down with a rusty shovel and the only thing they’ll find is a pile of bloody sheet music and whatever else you have

 **YOU:** i’m afraid to ask what the “whatever else you have” is

 **COMMA:** good

 **COMMA:** don’t fucking hurt her alex you have ONE JOB

 **YOU:** seriously?

 **YOU:** you’ve known me for like three years

 **COMMA:** THAT’S THE PROBLEM, ALEXANDER

 **YOU:** I WON’T HURT YOUR SISTER SHE IS A LOVELY AND SWEET PERSON

* * *

 

      “Large black coffee for a mister Ay-ay-ron?”

      Aaron sighed, put his textbook down, and went to retrieve his coffee from the grinning barista.

      “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that?” He asked half-heartedly. The employee behind the counter, a tall Korean girl with plum-dark lips and eyes that crinkled at the corners as she giggled, just shook her head and handed Aaron his drink.

      “Sorry, couldn’t resist,” she said.

      “I’m sure you couldn’t.”

      “Oh, lighten up a bit,” the barista replied, delicately selecting a cup sleeve from a basket on the counter and handing it over with a flourish. “You with your boring black coffee. I know you put like a gallon of cream in this. You always do.”

      Aaron smirked as he took the cardboard sleeve. “This place has only been open for a month. Don’t tell me you’ve memorized my routine.”

      “You’re in here practically every day,” the girl said, nodding at the table in the corner, which Aaron had grown to think of as _his_ table, if only because he got irrationally angry whenever he arrived to find someone else sitting there. At the moment, the table was stacked with books and papers. “That pile keeps getting bigger and bigger,” the barista observed. “What’s your major?”

      “Huh? Oh, no, I’m a senior at Union Heights. The high school.”

      The girl’s eyes bugged out a little. “Seriously?”

      Aaron couldn’t keep the smirk off his face and was about to reply when the man at the cash register (who Aaron decided looked alarmingly like an older Alexander Hamilton) shouted, “Theo! Quit flirting with the customers and get back to work!”

      “Coming, Usnavi!” The girl shouted back before giving Aaron an apologetic shrug.

      “Theodora?” Aaron asked. The barista rolled her eyes.

      “Theodosia. I know, I’m not in a position to be poking fun at anyone.”

      “No, it’s a pretty name,” Aaron replied, meaning it. “Do you have a phone number to go with it?”

      Theo chuckled. “That work for you?”

      “Most of the time. Why isn’t it working now?”

      “Maybe I don’t go for high school students.”

      “I’m taking a lot of AP classes. Does that count for something?”

      “Can you drink?”

      “Not legally, no. But when has that ever stopped anyone?”

      “Ooh, such a bad boy.”

      “If you like.”

      “Theodosia!” Usnavi shouted, shaking an empty cup. Disgruntled customers started to murmur and glare down the counter.

      “Try flirting with me when I’m not working,” Theo said with a wink before turning away, leaving Aaron standing alone by the counter, feeling a little like he’d been hit by a small whirlwind. Not, he decided, a necessarily bad thing.

* * *

  **TRAITOR**

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **GOD eliza makes me feel so helpless she’s so great wow you don’t understand burr eliza is just,, WOW

 **TRAITOR:** it’s two am alexander

* * *

**HAMILSQUAD**

**BAGUETTE:** i regret to inform you that i am leaving for france this ah

 **BAGUETTE:** how do you say, thanksgiving?

 **BAGUETTE:** i do not understand these american customs

 **SMALL TURTLE:** laf you KNOW what thanksgiving is

 **SMALL TURTLE:** we had the discussion last year

 **SMALL TURTLE:** and the year before that.

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** YOURE LEAVING YOU CANT LEAVE WE HAVE TO REHEARSE FOR REVFEST

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **DONT DO THIS TO ME I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS

 **BRAH BRAH:** lmao chill alex

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **HERC YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY ACCEPT THIS

 **BAGUETTE:** it is just for a week mon jambon

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** HHHHH

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **LAURENS AND NOW Y OU????? NOW YOU

 **SHITFUCKO FRANCOPHILE:** lafayette u should take me w you ;)

 **BAGUETTE:** non

 **SMALL TURTLE:** no

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** NO??

 **BRAH BRAH:** no

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** my GOD jefferson could you be any more INSUFFERABLE JACKASS

 **SHITFUCKO FRANCOPHILE:** i just want to re-experience the rich culture and society of France

 **BAGUETTE:** how do you say,,, fuck off

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **jesus christ you’re like

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** a weeaboo but for FRANCE

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** who even invited you into this chat

 **MAD AS A HATTER:** I did

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** why are YOU in this chat

**YOU (LITTLE HAMMY) kicked MAD AS A HATTER and SHITFUCKO FRANCOPHILE**

****LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** HOW COULD YOU LEAVE US LAF

 **BAGUETTE:** here we go again

* * *

 

      Laurens glanced at Charles Lee from the corner of his eye, watching as he stared at the menu in the half-daze, half-dead state that could only be a product of finals week and the fact that they were both currently standing in a Denny’s three hours before sunrise. Laurens briefly wondered if it would be worth the effort of saying hi, but then again... Laurens had a bag of pancakes and an exhausted ex-boyfriend back at the dorm, both of which required his utmost attention.

      Just when Laurens had decided to leave, Lee looked over at him.

      “John Laurens?”

       _Great._ Laurens couldn’t be bothered to put up a front that suggested he had slept for more than five hours in the past week, but thankfully, neither did Lee.

      “What are you doing at a Denny’s at 3 AM?” The other boy asked accusingly.

  _What_ ** _was_ ** _he doing at a Denny’s at 3 AM?_ Laurens fumbled for a response. “Well, what are _you_ doing at a Denny’s at 3 AM?”

      Lee blinked. “It’s finals week,” he responded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. (and, to Laurens’ sleep-deprived brain, it _was_ a perfectly reasonable explanation.)

      “That’s fair.” Laurens said, pretending not to the notice the fact that something had broken in the bag and syrup was dripping everywhere.

      “Why are _you_ here?”

      Laurens sighed, finally having remembered why he had bothered driving the ten minutes it took to get to this bizarre and perpetually sticky place. “I’m getting pancakes for my ex-boyfriend who hasn't slept in two days.”

      “That’s also fair.” Lee sighed, looking at his phone. “Heard you finally quit jazz. What took you so long?”

      “It’s just for the trimester,” Laurens responded, nearly adding _though I shouldn’t have to justify myself to_ you _of all people,_ but he was too tired to string together any more than the bare minimum of words required for a complete sentence. Lee snorted and took a long gulp from what was most likely his sixth or seventh coffee.

      “Whatever floats your boat.”

      “You don’t have to get all pissy just because you got kicked out of the band. I mean, you did kind of blow it at RevFest last year.”

      Lee’s face collapsed into a dangerous frown. “It’s not my fault Washington’s a fucking pussy and can’t be bothered to learn a thing about music.” He laughed in that hysteric, half-dead manner that can only come from intense sleep-deprivation or, in Lee’s case, general assholery. “How’s that saying go?” He asked, squinting at Laurens. “Those who can do, those who can’t teach?”

      Laurens didn’t reply for a few moments, instead taking the time to mull over the pros and cons of what he was planning to do, eventually deciding that he couldn’t possibly be held responsible for his actions when he was running on less than two hours of sleep.

      “Okay,” he said finally, and Lee blinked, having nearly fallen asleep despite the enormous amount of caffeine rushing through his veins.

      “What?” He asked.

      “Okay, so we’re doing this. Come on.” He grabbed Lee by the arm and wrenched him out of his seat. “Let’s go.” He deposited the bag of pancakes on the table next to Lee’s textbooks before pulling the other boy with him towards the door. He’d come back for it later, once he was finished.

* * *

**WILL NORTH**

**WILL NORTH:** uh hey alex

 **WILL NORTH:** i know we don’t talk much but there’s something you should know

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** ? what is it ?

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** it’s kidn of finals i dont have time its,,,

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** ??que hora es????

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** how many question mnarks do english sentences have again like four

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** ???? is the beginning or the end of the sentence

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** ?? is it las,,, tres am wait english ro spinach

 **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU):** *spanish

 **WILL NORTH:** well your ex boyfriend is kind of beating some guy up in a denny’s parking lot

 **WILL NORTH:** i mean im sure he has his reasons!

 **WILL NORTH:** but like

 **WILL NORTH:** its a little concerning

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** oky ill be there in 5 min


	4. The "Hamilton Fucks Up" Holiday Special (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i could say that we're sorry... but we're really not

      “Hamilton, sit down.”

      “Can this wait? I have to get back to my dorm to study for the final tomorrow.”

      “If you would stop pacing around and sit down, that might expedite the process.”

      Alex huffed but reluctantly sat in the chair across from Mister Washington, who regarded him with a mixture of paternal sympathy and disappointment. Alex knew that look. That was his absolute least favorite type of look. It would be easier if Washington just yelled at him at got the ordeal over with, but Alex knew that was unlikely.

      “Would you mind explaining to me,” Washington began, glancing down at his computer screen, “why I received an email from your dorm parent at… four in the morning? Something about you and John Laurens having a disagreement with Charles Lee at a local restaurant?”

       _Fistfight in a Denny’s parking lot,_ Alex thought, but he simply said, “I didn’t assault anyone, if that’s what you think happened. I never touched Lee.”

      Washington nodded and sifted through another few emails. “That may very well be true,” he said, still not looking directly at Alex, “but from what I hear there was perhaps some egging-on involved? A few shouted encouragements?”

      “That might be an exagerr -”

      “‘Student reportedly shouted ‘Don't stop ‘til you see blood!’ And ‘Clothesline the motherfucker!’” Washington read, squinting at the computer screen in mock confusion. “I must say I’m not familiar with that one.”

      “It's a wrestling move,” Alex grumbled, sinking farther into his chair.

      “Look, son -” Washington began, folding his hands on the desk.

      “Don’t call me son,” Alex snapped.

     “Alex, you can’t keep getting into fights.”

      “I wasn’t fighting anyone! It was Laurens who was, well actually, _Lee_ was the one-”

      “Alex, do you think I care who started it? You need to start thinking about your future.”

      “What about it?” Alex snarled.

      “Son -”

      “I’m not your son.”

      “Watch your tone,” Washington said, his own tone sounding a little dangerous. “You know your scholarship depends on you keeping up your grades and, more importantly, not getting into trouble.”

      “Are you kidding me!” Alex shouted. “Lee gets to walk around like he owns the place and never has to answer for any of it. You should have _heard_ what he was saying about _you.”_

      “Alex,” Washington said with a half-smile, “I’m your teacher and your advisor. I’m not a damsel in distress.”

      “So I’m just supposed to let him disrespect you like that.”

      “As much as I appreciate your concern, I think I can handle it.”

      “It’s not fair,” Alex seethed. “Why should I have to walk a tightrope when people like Lee and King George can do whatever the hell they want? Not to mention the fact that George’s dad fucking _bribes_ the music department. It’s like having cash just gives you free reign to act like a grade A douchebag!”

      “You should be careful making accusations like that without evidence,” Washington warned.

      “Who needs evidence? Everyone knows!”

      Washington sighed and massaged his temples. “Look, son -”

      “Call me ‘son’ _one_ more time!” Alex snapped. Then, more quietly, “God, you’re not my _father."_

      Washington regarded him for a moment, looking somewhat stung, though he quickly regained his composure. “Fine,” he said tightly. “This is clearly a waste of time. I’ll let you get back to studying.”

      “Wait -” Alex began, but Washington was already closing down his computer and gathering up his things.

      “No, no,” the director said mildly. “You’re right. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. I have a private lesson to teach anyway. Good luck with your exams.” With that he was out the door, leaving Alex sitting in front of the wide mahogany desk, feeling like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him. By the time he had strung together enough words for a half-decent apology, Washington was already long gone, and Alex was left with only the sinking feeling that he had just been given a chance, for what he wasn't sure, and he had royally blown it. In other words, he felt like shit.

      Yes, it definitely would have been easier if Washington had just yelled at him.

* * *

 

      “So, how’s it feel to be on this side of the counter?”

      “You do know I have a life outside of being a barista,” Theo replied slyly, taking a sip of her latte. It left a line of foam on her upper lip, which she wiped off with the side of her thumb.

      “To be honest, I thought you lived back there.” Aaron joked, raising his own coffee to his lips. Theo had giggled ten minutes before as she watched him had poured three packets of sugar into the cup, more than enough to counteract the bitterness, and Aaron just knew she had been fighting back the urge to make some sly remark.

      “Okay,” Theo said, placing her cup down on the table, nails bright red against the white styrofoam. “Before we get this whatever-you-call it underway -”

      “Date?” Aaron suggested.

      “We agreed not to call it that,” Theo said. “That’s why we’re meeting here and not somewhere fancy.”

      “Don’t let Usnavi hear you say that,” Aaron said with a smirk, knocking back another third of his coffee.

      “He’ll understand,” Theo replied. “But seriously, I think this’ll work best if we’re totally honest with each other.”

      Aaron nodded, but his throat was suddenly tight, and he reached to scratch an itch that had sprung up at his side. He was beginning to regret buying a new binder, even if the old one no longer fit the way it used to. This one still chafed and scratched, not yet molded to his torso, and the godforsaken _tag_ ; why had he not thought to cut it off before he-

      “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” he said. He’d been on HRT long enough that his voice had long since stopped breaking, but it definitely came out strangled. Thankfully Theo didn’t seem to notice.

      “Good,” she said, glancing down at the table. “I come with some baggage.”

      “Well we have that in common.”

      “I’m serious,” Theo said, and Aaron could tell she meant it. “This might be kind of shocking.”

      “Honestly,” Aaron said, taking another gulp of coffee to quiet his nerves, “I doubt anything you say could surprise me.”

      Theo looked like she didn’t believe him in the slightest, but she took a deep breath and drummed her fingertips on the tabletop as she searched for the right words. “I have a fiancé.”

      Aaron choked on his coffee. “Sorry, what?”

      Theo refused to look up. “I’m sort of engaged to this guy -”

      “ _Sort of_?”

      “Okay, I’m supposed to marry this guy named James; he’s around my age, but he doesn’t live around here. Our parents kind of cajoled us into it - not like in the traditional arranged marriage sense, they’re not that backwards - but I suppose we’re _technically_ dating… I only see him a couple times a year, though, so it’s not like we’re that exclusive; I mean, except for the whole legal situation, but even that’s not like, _official_. I told him I was waiting until I got out of college, but…” She trailed off, finally sneaking a peek at Aaron’s slack expression. “Not good?” She asked, wincing.

      “Well, I’ll admit it’s a little jarring. Do you even like him?”

      Theo just shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s hard when I don’t really see him that much. I’ve still got another year or so to figure things out.”

      “And you were never planning on staying single during that time, then.” Aaron said slowly.

      “I know this is weird,” Theo said, crossing her legs in that furtive way that told Aaron the subject made her uncomfortable. “I’m what, three years older than you?”

      “Four. I skipped a grade.”

      “Christ.”

      Aaron couldn’t help but grin, and he didn’t quite know why. Alex would probably have a stroke if he ever found out about this whole affair; Aaron could just picture it - _“Are you telling me that, you, Mister Aaron Goody-Two-Shoes Burr, are honest-to-God dating a_ college _student? And she’s_ _**engaged**? I’m sorry, I have to go build a safe house because it’s apparently the invasion of the fucking _ body _snatchers.”_ \- except why was he thinking about Alex? What did he care what the arrogant bastard thought of him? And yet it was definitely a perverse kind of spite that motivated him to reply, “I mean, I don’t mind. Do you?”

      Theo bit her thumbnail, the red polish contrasting sharply with her eternally dark lipstick. “You know, I really don’t. Does that make me a bad person?”

      “I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Aaron said. Theo looked up at him earnestly, and God, didn’t she have the most beautiful eyes? Dark and furtive, they reminded him of someone.

      “You know you’re really good at this,” she said, narrowing her eyes as if suspicious. “What’s your secret?”

      “Yes, weren’t we supposed to be getting to that?” Aaron replied with a nervous laugh.

      “Oh, that’s right,” Theo said excitedly, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward on her elbows. “I told you my thing; now you have to tell me yours. It better be juicy.”

      “Oh, it is,” Aaron chuckled, though internally he was just repeating the word ‘ _fuck_ ’ over and over to himself as he took a calming breath. God, he had planned how he was going to say this, but things never worked out quite the same in practice, and this was one of those times where there was a lot riding on the situation. When he finally did speak, the words came out in a rush: “Mynamedidn’tusedtobeAaron.”

      Theo blinked. “Sorry?”

      “My name wasn’t always Aaron,” he said again, more slowly this time. Theo cocked her head to one side.

      “You changed your name? How come? I mean, I like the one you have now but…”

      “It just didn’t fit,” Aaron replied truthfully.

      “What was it before?” Theo asked impulsively. “I mean, if I’m allowed to ask. You don’t have to tell me or anything, I’m just curious.”

      “No, it’s fine,” Aaron said, taking a deep breath. “Total honesty and everything. I used to be named Erin.”

      Theo looked at him blankly.

      “With an ‘E,’” he clarified, and realization slowly bloomed on the girl’s face.

      “Ooooh. Oh?”

      “Yeah.”

      “That’s… that’s totally fine. I mean, I never would have guessed - not that that’s a compliment or anything - I just. Oh.”

      “Yeah,” Aaron said with a shaky laugh before the girl could dig herself into an even deeper hole. “That was my very roundabout way of telling you that I’m transgender. Glad to see you’re taking it well.”

      “I’d like to think I should be taking it well,” Theo said, sounding almost irritable. “I mean, it’s 2015 for God’s sake. I hope I don’t seem like the sort of person who wouldn’t take it well.”

      “No, it’s not that,” Aaron said, swirling what remained of his coffee around in the bottom of the cup, where the sugar had turned to sludge. “I just kind of assumed you were straight, which makes things more complicated.”

      “It’s not nice to make assumptions,” Theo replied, half-teasing.

      “Well, not making assumptions has historically not worked out well for me,” Aaron said. “Not that I’d expect you to try to beat me up or anything, just-”

      “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Theo said, delicate hand flying to her mouth.

      “Do you think we could talk about something else?” Aaron replied quickly. “Just for a while. And then we can get back to it.”

      Theo nodded vigorously.

      “Okay, seeing as we’ve gotten the major confessions out of the way, I think it’s time for small talk. What’s your major?”

      “Entrepreneurship.”

      “Ooh, fancy. I’m thinking law.”

      “I can see you doing that.”

      “Glad to hear it.”

      “I am, you know.”

      “What?”

      “Straight,” Theo clarified. “Not that it makes a difference one way or another. You’re a guy.”

      “Yes. We seem to have addressed that subject.”

      “A very cute guy,” Theo added. “Who I am beginning to like quite a lot. And, seeing as it is Saturday afternoon, I would not be opposed to letting said cute guy take me out to dinner.”

      “I’ll let you know when I’m old enough to cash in on my trust fund.”

      “Okay, scratch that,” Theo said, crumpling up an empty sugar packet and pushing it into her cup. “Seeing as I’m the only one here who’s actually _employed_ , I will be buying us cheap Indian food and pretending it’s a mark of feminine independence.”

      “Sounds good to me.”

* * *

 

**HAMILSQUAD**

**BAGUETTE:** bonjour mes amis!

 **BAGUETTE:** joyeux noël and bonne fête de hanoukka for laurens

 **SMALL TURTLE:** i have eaten at least thirty latkes in the past hour

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **tell me something i don’t know

 **BAGUETTE:** excellent! can i have one

 **SMALL TURTLE:** sure lemme fly to france to give you a fucking latke

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **so how’s it in france, was it worth abandoning the rest of us in america so we can’t practice for revfest?? _HM???_

 **BAGUETTE:** we have lots of snow in auvergne

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **WE HAVE SNOW IN NEW YORK AS WELL

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **PLENTY OF IT

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **YOU TRAITOR

 **SMALL TURTLE:** i thought burr was the traitor

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **THERE CAN BE MORE THAN ONE TRAITOR

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ABANDONED us FOR _SNOW_

 **BAGUETTE:** [sips good coffee and food]

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** HHH

 **BRAH BRAH:** i wake up to see this shit spamming my notifications

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** it’s noon

 **BRAH BRAH:** were on break

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **YOU CAN’T JUST GO SQUANDERING ALL OF THIS VALUABLE TIME ON SLEEP, MULLIGAN

 **BRAH BRAH:** im going back to sleep

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **YOU’RE JUST AS BAD AS LAURENS

 **SMALL TURTLE:** shhh i like watching latke eat

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **why did you name your turtle latke it gets very confusing

 **SMALL TURTLE:** dude i was like six and it was hanukkah

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **DO YOU WANT TO EAT YOUR PET TURTLE DEAR LAURENS

 **SMALL TURTLE:** he is small and good like latkes. it has nothing to do with edibility

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** i’m ashamed i used to date you

 **SMALL TURTLE:** so exactly what are you doing with your valuable break time

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **i’m glad you asked! i’m reading ahead for our classes

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** well actually i already did that. so i’m going into next year but washington is proving himself exceptionally cagey about next year’s curriculum

 **SMALL TURTLE:** wow

 **SHITFUCKO FRANCOPHILE:** afraid theyll kick you out if you dont asskiss all the time?

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **I THOUGHT I BANNED YOU

 **SHITFUCKO FRANCOPHILE:** kicking and banning are different things

 **SMALL TURTLE:** you’re just pissy because alex is doing better than you in every class

 **SMALL TURTLE:** don’t lie, i’ve seen the honor roll

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **WHATEVER

**A DOT HAM (YOU) banned SHITFUCKO FRANCOPHILE from HAMILSQUAD**

**SMALL TURTLE:** babe i’m gonna kick his ass

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **it’s cool

 **ELIZA ( <3):** did i miss something?

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** nothing, dear eliza

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **just jefferson being a shit-sniffing assmunch

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **nothing unusual

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : ** but it is our two-month anniversary!!

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** i love you dear eliza <3

 **ELIZA ( <3):** (´∀｀)♡

 **BAGUETTE:** how cute

 **BRAH BRAH:** you guys are disgusting

 **COMMA:** Remember, Alex. _Remember._

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **WHO INVITED ANGELICA INTO THE CHAT

 **ELIZA ( <3): **alex come over and take a break

 **ELIZA ( <3):** i have a little surprise!! trust me it can’t wait

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** okay okay

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **i’ll be there in 20 minutes

 **ELIZA ( <3): **32 catherine street!! don’t forget（ ^ 3^）~ <3

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** <3 i would never

 **SMALL TURTLE:** this is overwhelmingly heterosexual

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **oh, and eliza?

 **ELIZA ( <3):** hm?

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **i love you

 **ELIZA:** (/ω＼*)

 **SMALL TURTLE:** these straights man, i just don’t get em, laf do you understand them?

 **BAGUETTE:** i do not

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **how dare you call me a heterosexual

 **SMALL TURTLE:** [finger guns]

* * *

**SMALL TURTLE**

****LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** :** SHE’S PERFECT THERE’S NO ONE ELSE SHE’S SO GOOD FOR ME

 **SMALL TURTLE:** k man don’t forget to get off on the right stop

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **FUCK

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **okay i’m here on time

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **SHE GOT US TWO MONTH ANNIVERSARY CAKE I LOVE HER LAURENS

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **AND she liked my present!! she’s keeping it on her drawer

 **SMALL TURTLE:** good that scrapbook was hard as shit to find those damn materials for

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **maybe for valentine’s day i should write a sonnet

 **SMALL TURTLE:** can you get me a turtle snuggie for valentine’s day

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **the day i get you a turtle snuggie is the day i kiss aaron burr

* * *

 

      Hercules Mulligan snorted, put his phone back on it's charger, and rolled out of bed. He nearly tripped over his sewing machine, which he had neglected to put away the night before, and cursed before stopping to gather up the paper patterns strewn across the floor and re-arrange them neatly on his sowing table.

      The project - a shirt dress with a gathered skirt - was a late Christmas gift for Lafayette, which the Marquis would be delighted to receive whenever they decided to stop fooling around in France. Most people were surprised to discover that Herc’s two primary academic passions were his history elective - Origins of Espionage - and Home Ec, but, well, a man can’t help what he’s good at. Herc rubbed the sleep from his eyes and checked the clock - after twelve. He should probably have something to eat, but there was time for a short run.

      Exercise was his only solace now, what with the combined pressure of school, band, and his friends’ constant hyperactivity. Herc considered himself a relatively chill guy, but maintaining that chill was notoriously difficult when it came to people like Alex Hamilton and John Laurens. Lafayette was a different matter altogether, but at least Herc could count on them knowing when it got to be too much.

      The air was bitingly cold outside, but the chill was no match for Herc’s coat, which he zipped up tight over his broad chest before starting a steady jog down the sidewalk. It was still early enough that the streets were relatively quiet, and Herc ran through the neighborhood feeling nicely isolated. The advantage to living in the suburbs was that there was little traffic, the disadvantage being that one occasionally had to deal with other people who lived in the suburbs, though thankfully not many of them seemed to be out and about, most probably still inside enjoying time off and a warm fire.

      “Mulligan! Merry Christmas!”

      Herc knew it was too good to be true. “Lee. Fancy meeting you here.” He slowed to a steady jog and turned to see Charles Lee being pulled down the sidewalk by a pack of what Herc counted and found to be a total of six dogs. The trombonist still had a vivid purple bruise on his forehead, a remnant of his fight with Laurens.

      It hadn’t been much of a fight, Herc had to remind himself; Lee had gotten his ass handed to him. It was one of those occasions when, no matter what Lee may have said, there was no fathomable reason for a beating that brutal. Laurens was lucky he didn’t get _arrested,_ let alone expelled, not that Herc would ever admit it. “How’s that dog-walking business working out for you?” He asked, reaching down to pet Lee’s large pomeranian, Spado, who licked his hand affectionately.

      Lee beamed. “I’m living my best life.”

      Herc grudgingly decided that maybe the other boy wasn’t completely terrible. “And how’s the face?” He asked, gesturing towards the bruise on Lee’s forehead. The other boy smiled bitterly.

      “I’ll be fine. Your quasi-boyfriend is lucky I was nice enough not to press charges. ”

      “I would apologize, but….”

      “That’s fine,” Lee replied, reaching to scratch Spado behind the ear. “I may or may not regret a few things I said. In my defense, it was finals week.”

      Herc shivered. “Thank God that’s over. Be honest, how badly did you bomb?”

      “Ehhh…” Lee bit his lip, which was still swollen from its encounter with Laurens’ fist. “History was a nightmare, but I’m guaranteed at least a B+.”

      Herc cocked his head to one side. “How’s that work?”

      Lee blushed as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing. “Uh, well,” he said, already beginning to reign in the dogs, which had begun to wind their leashes around him while sniffing around the sidewalk. “Mister George is actually surprisingly _receptive_ to requests. Come, on boys.” He tugged at the leashes and started down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. Herc jogged to keep up.

      “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

      “Who knows? I don’t know how your mind works.”

      “When you say ‘requests,’ you mean ‘large amounts of cash,’ don’t you?”

      “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      Herc grabbed Lee by the front of the shirt, and the other boy flinched, face scrunching up in preparation for an assault. Herc immediately felt bad, but he didn’t let go. “Are you saying Mister George has been accepting _bribes_ from students?”

      “I didn’t say anything.” Lee said quickly. He sounded genuinely terrified, and Herc, despite how sick it made him feel, decided to press that advantage.

      “You understand this is a serious breach of academic honesty, right?” He asked. “He could get _fired_.”

      “... Yeah?”

       _“He could get fired.”_

      “I know, I know,” Lee said. “Cut me some slack, man, it's an AP class.”

      Herc scrutinized the other boy’s face for another minute before sighing and letting go. “You won't be able to bribe your way out of the AP exam,” he mumbled, mind already racing as he considered the implications of what he had just heard.

      “Wasn't planning on it.” Lee rubbed sympathetically at his neck, but Herc didn't have time to feel bad. This was information that Alex needed to know.

* * *

**BRAH BRAH**

**BRAH BRAH:** alex

 **BRAH BRAH:** alex dude youre gonna want to hear this

* * *

 

      Red wrapping paper came away beneath his hands, revealing a sleek black box edged with silver trim. “I'm afraid to ask,” James said, throwing a skeptical glance Thomas’s way.

      “Just open it,” the other boy said with a grin. He was lounging in a bean bag with one of James’s eight presents - a knit scarf with tassels on the ends - wrapped around his neck. _“You don’t have to get me anything else,”_ he had insisted, _“I celebrate both, you know,”_ but he hadn’t complained when James proceeded to shower him with gifts for the next six days.  

      James carefully removed the top of the box. Inside there lay what James at first thought was a flute, only for him to realize that it was two sizes too small.

      “You said you wanted to learn how to play the piccolo,” Thomas said sheepishly, looking shy for the first time that day.

      “Thomas, this must have cost a fortune -”

      “You got me eight presents!” The other said defensively. “Believe me, it's the least I could do.”

      James removed the piccolo from its case and fingered the keys experimentally. “Thank you. Really.”

      “Hey, no problem,” Thomas said, but he blushed as he said it, which meant he was at least partially relieved by James’s reaction, James added ‘embarrassed’ to the list of expressions that made him want to kiss the other boy. He really needed to quit it with the lists. It was becoming a struggle. “Oh, so I was thinking for New Year’s we could throw a party at my house,” Thomas continued, becoming animated once again. “My parents are gonna be out of town, and I know where my mom hides the good wine.”

      James chuckled and carefully closed the box. “You know we’re at that age where we can get college kids to bring us beer?”

      “Ehhh, I just want it to be conservatory kids,” Jefferson said, stretching out on the bean bag so that his sweater rode up an inch above his waistline. “Jazz and classical. You know, bury the hatchet.”

      “Does that include Milky White?” James asked, pointedly not looking at the other boy’s line of exposed skin.

      “George’s invite will be conveniently lost in the mail,” Thomas said. Then, grudgingly, “I suppose we can’t stop the shrimp from crashing.”

      “Hamilton _has_ been helping us,” James replied. He was a bit more inclined to give Alex the benefit of the doubt, having been on at least semi-amiable terms with the junior before last year’s falling out, but Thomas had no such prior obligations.

      “Fat lot of good it’s done,” the violinist mumbled, sinking farther into the bean bag chair.

      “We’ll figure something out,” James said encouragingly. “Relax for now. It’s the holidays.”

* * *

 

**ELIZA ( <3)**

**ELIZA ( <3): **i wish i could come to the party... but…

 **ELIZA ( <3): **it’s a ‘family gathering, elizabeth, you only get to see your cousins once a year!’

 **ELIZA ( <3):** ( - ‸ -)

 **ELIZA ( <3): **and then peggy gets to go but i don't...

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **well i’m sure jefferson only invited me out of spite or to make more plans about kicking george out

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **and apart from my master prank it’ll probably suck

 **ELIZA ( <3): **well i’ll just text you a kiss at midnight! (○´3｀)

 ** **LITTLE HAMMY (YOU)** : **that’s better than any new years party

* * *

 

      Peggy was standing awkwardly by the snack table, attempting to discern whether the liquid in the punch bowl was something their father would approve of them drinking, when a heavy hand landed on their shoulder.

      “Peg, you’re not gonna believe this.”

      Peggy turned to see Hercules Mulligan, out of breath and grinning ear to ear, apparently so excited by whatever news he had to offer that he had momentarily forgotten that the two of them weren’t friends in any sense of the word, but that didn't seem to matter now. The drummer had lost the façade of sullen coolness that he had so carefully cultivated, and now he was leaning in, voice conspiratorial.

      “Professor George, your esteemed history teacher, has been taking bribes from students,” he whispered, clearly drunk off secrecy and whatever the fuck was in that punch bowl. _Christ_ , Peggy thought, _couldn’t Jefferson have invested in some soda bottles?_ The communal bowl had to be unsanitary, but Jefferson seemed eager to show it off; knowing him, the thing was probably an antique. Peggy blinked a few times before they quite understood what Hercules was saying, and then the shock was nearly unraveling.

      “Seriously? How much for a B average?” They asked once they were quite recovered. Mulligan guffawed, showing off white teeth.

      “Dunno,” he replied. “Ask Charles Lee. He’s the one who told me.”

      “We got him, then,” Peggy pressed. “Have you told Principal Washington.”

      Mulligan swayed on his feet, hip pressing into the edge of the table. He grabbed a handful of pretzels from another open bowl. “Here’s the thing,” he said between bites. “There’s really not any concrete _evidence_ , but I don’t see why that should be a problem.”

      “It shouldn’t be a problem?” Peggy asked, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve don’t have a way to prove this extremely inflammatory claim, and that’s not a problem?”

      Mulligan shrugged and stuffed another pretzel into his mouth.

      “Why exactly is that not a problem?”

      “Because,” Mulligan said with pride, “I have been taking Origins of Espionage for more than an entire trimester. I know all there is to know about uncovering secrets. I can move about unseen and unheard.”

      “You’re six feet tall, and people can hear your footsteps coming like a mile away.”

      “That last bit may have been an exaggeration. But it doesn’t matter - that’s where you come in.”

      Peggy scratched the back of their head quizzically, deciding absently that it was time for another buzz cut. “I’m sorry?”

      “You’re tiny,” Mulligan explained, “and you never talk. I need someone with those skills.”

      “So being short is a skill?”

      “It is when it comes to spying.” Mulligan said. “Plus,” he added, seeming to adopt his usual gruffness, “you’re in Mister George’s class. So what do you say?”

      Peggy drummed their fingertips on the table. “Okay,” they said finally. “What exactly is this going to entail?”

      Mulligan grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Have you ever seen the Jason Bourne movies?”

      Peggy sighed and reached for the punch. At this rate, they were going to need it.

* * *

 

      “I’m dying,” James said, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

      “You’re not dying. Please wipe your nose.”

      “Thank you,” James said, reaching to take the box of tissues from Dolley’s outstretched hand. He blew his nose violently and chucked the Kleenex into the wastebasket. “I’m really sorry about this.”

      “It’s no problem,” Dolley replied with a shrug. “It’s not your fault you have the immune system of an eighteenth century English peasant.”

      “Still,” James said hoarsely. “You should be out having fun. You didn’t have to ditch the party just for me.”

      “House parties aren't really my thing,” Dolley replied, twisting a strand of curly black hair around her finger before letting it go. “Besides, I don’t think the whole _pretending-to-date-and-making-Thomas-jealous-thing_ was going to work anyway.”

      James blushed, ashamed to have been found out. “Why not?”

      Dolley peered at him over her glasses. “Well, for starters, you are as straight as a slinky, and if Thomas doesn’t know that he’s either an idiot or really unobservant. Probably both.”

      James just grunted, which made the corners of Dolley’s mouth prick up. “ _And,_ ” she continued, “making the other person jealous is the _least_ effective way of getting them to like you.”

      “How would you know?” James asked irritably. “You’re the biggest aromantic ever.”

      “That was going to be my third reason,” Dolley said, raising a finger, “and it’s also just common sense, James. Dishonesty isn’t fair to either of you. You should just be direct.”

      “You have no idea how terrifying that is.”

      “Can it be any worse than, what was it? _Six years_ of pining?”

      James refused to dignify that with a response, which only served to vindicate Dolley’s point. Her face softened, however, and she got up off the bean bag chair to sit next to James on the bed.

      “If it makes you feel any better,” she said, “Sally and Martha are probably tearing him a new one right now.”

      “Chorus girls are heartless,” James mumbled, resting his head on Dolley’s shoulder.

      “I’m in the chorus!”

      “Yeah, but you’re an exception.”

      Dolley giggled at that. “Jefferson has it coming. You know that.”

      “Yeah,” James sighed.

      “Honestly, I don’t know what you see in him.”

      “No one ever does. Nobody ever bothers to get to know him.”

      “You’re a sweet guy,” Dolley said. “He’ll come around eventually. You’ll see.”

      “Ye -” James tried to reply, but he suddenly descended into a violent sneezing fit. Dolley patted him sympathetically on the back.

      “Just try to stay alive until then, right hon?”

* * *

 

      Alex Hamilton generally didn’t think of himself as a petty person, but when it came to Thomas Jefferson, he was willing to try. And he certainly wasn’t going to waste the excellent revenge opportunity that was being left entirely to his own devices inside Jefferson’s house. The only problem was, as he observed for the millionth time, the place was outrageously large, and his revenge plot, which ordinarily would have been a piece of cake, was turning out to be exceptionally tedious.

      It shouldn’t have been a problem to steal every roll of toilet paper in the house and hide them all in various places that included but were not limited to: behind the radiators, in the refrigerator, and inside the chandelier (the bastard had a _chandelier_ for Christ’s sake), but this was not proving to be the case.

       _How many bathrooms does a person_ **_need_** _?_ Alex thought to himself as he rummaged through the third floor powder room. He’d counted six so far, but he hadn’t searched the rest of the floor, and he was rapidly running out of creative hiding places. After sticking a few rolls in the linen closet and another under a lamp shade, he was about to head down the corridor when he heard a muffled noise coming from what he presumed was the master bedroom. At first he passed it off as two upperclassmen getting a little too friendly, but as he stepped closer he recognized the sound as crying. _Shit._ He hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly turned the doorknob.

      Much to his annoyance, the doors in Jefferson’s otherwise insufferably perfect house had a habit of creaking. The crying stopped abruptly, and the girl sitting inside the room looked up at him from her seat on the bed. Alex didn’t recognize her, which meant she was either in the chorus or the orchestra, neither of which were groups where Alex could easily find friends. But the girl looked distraught; her mascara had run down her cheeks in black lines, and her crimson mouth was downturned at the corners. She was wearing a red dress that came down to just above her knees.

      “Sorry,” Alex blurted, starting to close the door and then thinking better of it. “It’s almost midnight; I wasn’t sure if you - I mean if you want to be alone, that’s cool, it’s just… Are you okay?”

      The girl nodded but didn’t say anything. Alex took an impulsive step into the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m Alex,” he said, extending a hand. The girl gave him a once-over before pointedly not taking it.

      “I know who you are,” she said, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “Shouldn’t you be off annoying Jefferson or something?”

      Something clicked. “You’re Maria, right? The cellist?”

      “What’s it to you?”

      “Aren’t you dating James Reynolds?”

      Maria just glared at him.

      “It’s just, if that’s what this is about, I get it. He sounds like he can be a real douchebag. Like, that’s all Angelica talks about sometimes. So... sorry.”

      “Are you always this nosey?”

      Alex shrugged. “Kinda can’t turn it off. Are you sure you’re okay?”

      “It’s nothing,” Maria said primly, pushing a strand of hair out of her face, which was already beginning to lose its red blotchiness. When she wasn’t crying, Alex realized, she was astonishingly pretty. “Don’t you have someone you should be kissing in, like, ten minutes?” She asked, gesturing towards the door. Alex blinked and took a moment to register what the girl was asking.

      “Huh? Oh, no. She’s at a party with her family.”

      “Shame.”

      “And I guess you and James aren’t exactly on the best of terms right now.”

      Maria gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, and Alex sat down carefully next to her.

      “Do you want to talk about it?”

      “Not particularly, no.”

      “That bad?”

      “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

      Alex waited in silence, listening as the party below grew louder at the clock counted down to midnight. The girl next to him let out a sigh, shifting so that their hands nearly touched.

      “He’s probably looking for me right now.”

* * *

 

      James Reynolds pushed through the crowd of (mostly drunk) conservatory students, eyes peeled for a slip of crimson dress or a waterfall of dark hair, but Maria was nowhere to be found. Hercules Mulligan was standing near the snack table, talking animatedly to the youngest Schuyler sibling, who was listening with an uninterested expression. Thomas Jefferson was arguing with Friedrich von Steuben, a German exchange student, over the remote in front of the TV, which was currently playing some bizarre European soap opera.

      “We need to see the ball drop!” Jefferson was saying, trying to wrest control of the remote from the unyielding Steuben.

      “Not until I find out who Wilhelmina is going to marry!”

      James moved on into the kitchen, where a group of chorus girls had gathered in a silent circle of texting and Snapchatting. They glared at him as he walked past, and he picked up the pace.

      Maria didn’t seem to be anywhere on the first floor; where had she gone?

      Jefferson seemed to have won the battle in the living room, because all of a sudden the sounds of Times Square were filling the house. Still a minute left until midnight. Had Maria left? That seemed unlikely. She had probably gone off somewhere to mope, and now James was being forced to go looking for her like an idiot. He really didn’t know what her problem was. It wasn’t like he had ever said they were _exclusive,_ for God’s sake. She was just blowing things out of proportion like she always did. He was probably going to have to apologize anyway.

      The final countdown began as he climbed the stairs.

       _“Ten!”_

      The second floor was a no-go, though James did find a roll of toilet paper hidden behind one of the radiators. Weird.

       _“Nine!”_

James started to climb the stairs to the third floor, though he was starting to wonder if any of this was worth it. What if she had gone home? No, she was somewhere around here, and he was going to find her.

       _“Eight!”_

Jefferson really did have a gigantic house; Maria could have been anywhere, really.

       _“Seven.”_

A quick survey of the floor didn’t reveal any signs of life, and James reluctantly turned to go back downstairs.

       _“Six!”_

He heard a noise.

       _“Five!”_

It was coming from behind one of the closed doors. James frowned, face going slack when he recognized the sound, and walked purposefully down the hall.

       _“Four!”_

There was no mistaking it now. James clenched his jaw and reached for the doorknob.

       _“Three!”_

The door gave way with a click.

       _“Two!”_

James stepped inside.

       _“One!”_

Maria pulled away from the boy who was sitting next to her on the bed, leaving a slash of red lipstick smeared across his astonished face. James instantly recognized Alexander Hamilton, the lead trumpet for the jazz band and the conservatory’s resident asshole, now looking properly disheveled and undone. Maria, for her part, grinned like a fox as she met James’s gaze, and she primly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

      “I can explain,” Hamilton said hurriedly, springing to his feet and away from the girl on the bed.

      “Oh, I’m sure you can,” James replied.

       _“Happy New Year!”_

* * *

 

**ELIZA ( <3)**

**ELIZA ( <3):** happy new year alex!!

 **ELIZA ( <3): **as promised, here’s your kiss (○´3｀) ~♡

 **ELIZA ( <3):** alex?

 **ELIZA ( <3): **if you fell asleep because you ran around for that dumb prank too much i’m not going to be pleased when i see you again! you’re missing a momentous occasion for couples (  >,<)

 **ELIZA ( <3): **(-, - )…zzzZZZ < you, a sleeping baby

 **ELIZA ( <3): **haha you’d probably be angrier

 **ELIZA ( <3): **text me when you wake up!! happy new year alex <3


	5. The "Hamilton Fucks Up" Holiday Special (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hamilton managed to fuck up even more somehow and it's only downhill from here

_**rewind** _

ten -- nine -- eight -- seven -- six -- five -- four -- three -- two  _\--_ _ **one**_

* * *

 

"He's probably looking for me right now."

      Alex felt Maria’s hand brush against his own and looked up at her. The girl’s hard profile gave nothing away, just a blurred outline of her face in the gloom. Her cheeks were still flushed, eyes ringed with melted liner and wet mascara. An idea seemed to strike her because the corners of that cruel red mouth turned up, and she turned, eyes half-lidded, to look Alex in the face.

      “You know what would make him really jealous?”

      Something in the way she said it reminded Alex of a bad horror movie he had watched with Laurens last Halloween. The main character had been about to open the door and descend into a dark cellar, where the monster was sure to be lurking, and Alex and Laurens had both been screaming _no!_ at the screen as the knob turned and the door creaked open, but deep down both of them wanted to see what was waiting down there in the dark. Alex felt that same feeling wash over him now as he stared at Maria’s tear-tracked face, that duel sense of fear but also desire, a need to know exactly what the monster looked like. It intensified when Maria put her hand on his, and he realized what she was asking.

      “I have a girlfriend,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

      “I have a boyfriend,” Maria countered, as if Eliza Schuyler, the actual reincarnation of Saint Cecilia, and James Reynolds, Tiger Woods’s less successful younger brother, were at all comparable.

      “Yeah, but I _like_ my girlfriend,” Alex replied, but his voice sounded weak. He thanked his lucky stars every _day_ that he was with someone as sweet and attentive as Eliza, he might even have gone as far to say that he _loved_ Eliza, but Eliza also wasn’t here. And Eliza wasn’t running her hand up and down his arm like that, and in a way that made it very difficult for Alex to concentrate.

      “Stay,” Maria said, shifting closer to him. Something in her voice was like a switch, and it made the fine hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stand up. Eliza was perfect; he would never in a million years deserve Eliza Schuyler, but there was something about this girl that was at the very least intriguing and at most fascinating. She was, Alex observed, just a little bit messy, just a tiniest bit out of control, just like him. And God, how could he say no to a face like that?

      At least that’s what he told himself when he leaned in and let Maria press her blood-red lips against his own.

      “Nobody needs to know,” he murmured, pressing back.

      _“Happy New Year!”_

* * *

 

      The moment the clock struck twelve and James Reynolds walked in, catching him red-handed and red-mouthed, Alex realized three fundamental truths at the exact same time.

      Number one: he had fucked up. More so than usual, which was saying something.

      Number two: so bad. He’d fucked up so bad.

      Number three: James Reynolds was glaring at him like he wanted to throw him through a fourth story window, and, considering the boy’s size, that was not entirely outside the realm of possibility.

      This was not going to end well for him.

* * *

 

      Thomas took one look at the living room, which was strewn with red solo cups, stray popcorn kernels, and popped balloons, and let out a deep sigh. A few stragglers were still on their way out the door, but none of them offered to help him as he began the arduous process of trying to make the house not look like a set piece from _Independence Day._

 _How do you even manage to get stains that high?_ he thought, surveying one of the living room walls, which vaguely resembled a painting by Jackson Pollock. As he attempted to untangle the cords of his old vacuum cleaner, a short boy with a black ponytail hurried past him towards the door.

      “Hey, shrimp, you wanna give me a hand here?” Thomas shouted, and Hamilton skidded to a halt, looking around hawkishly. What on Earth had made the kid so jumpy all of a sudden? Thomas supposed it was probably a vestige of all the junk food his house guests had managed to consume in the past few hours, but who in their right mind would let Alexander Hamilton have caffeine?

      “Uh, sorry. Gotta run,” the boy said, albeit with none of his usual sarcasm. Thomas watched suspiciously as he retrieved his coat from the hall closet and went to fetch his snow boots.

      “You okay?” He asked, abandoning the vacuum and making his way towards the foyer. Hamilton looked up sharply but quickly refocused his attention on buttoning his coat.

      “I’m fine,” he said. “Just excited, you know, about the thing with George.”

      “Oh yeah,” Thomas said, face breaking into a wide grin. He had nearly forgotten about that. “Are you sure your man can handle it?”

      “Herc’s good at this sort of thing,” Hamilton said absently, turning up his collar as a safeguard from January chill. It was then that Thomas noticed the smear of red lipstick - the shade was unmistakable - on the other boy’s jawline. Thomas rolled his eyes. How was it that Alexander Hamilton, douchebag extraordinaire, managed to snag a Schuyler sister, while Thomas had spent the last few hours suffering under the withering stares of Martha Wayles and Sally Hemings? It just didn’t seem fair, especially considering… wait.

      “I thought Eliza was doing something with her family?” Thomas asked, cocking his head to one side. Hamilton frowned; he looked lost.

      “She is. Peggy only got out of it because their parents think they need more friends.”

      “Then what’s with the…” Thomas gestured at his own face, and Hamilton reached self-consciously for his cheek before the realization seemed to hit him, and he clenched his jaw tightly.

      “Oh…” Thomas said, trying hard not to smile like he’d just won the lottery.

      “You didn’t see anything,” Hamilton growled, rubbing ineffectively at his face, which only served to smear the red even more. Thomas put up his hands in mock defeat.

      “Hey, hey, hey, don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s just that -” this time he couldn’t help the crooked smile that split his face. “I only know one person who wears that shade of lipstick, and she -”

      “You cannot tell anyone,” Hamilton shouted, and with such conviction Thomas was rendered momentarily speechless. The other boy’s voice sounded almost pained, which ordinarily would have been amusing, but for some reason, in these circumstances, just wasn’t.

      “Okay, fine,” Thomas said. “My lips are sealed.”

      “Good,” Hamilton replied with a curt nod. “Not a soul.”

      “Not a soul.”

      “Thank you.” Hamilton grimaced as he said this and ultimately fled through the front door without another word. Thomas blinked a few times and then peered out the window to see the other boy walking quickly down the driveway. Before he even reached his car, Thomas was pulling out his phone and typing out a gleeful message to James.

* * *

**WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER ( <3)**

**WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER:** maddy

 **WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER:** maddy youre not gonna believe this

* * *

 

      “Get in loser!” Laurens shouted, holding down the horn so that it blew continuously until Alex climbed into the back of the car.

      “Okay, okay! Give me a break!”

      “Not a chance,” Laurens said warmly as Alex buckled himself in. Mulligan was sitting in the passenger seat, far too inebriated to drive but not too inebriated to argue this point, which he continued to do even as Laurens backed out of the driveway. Thankfully it was too dark for either of them to see Alex’s pale face, and Laurens had turned up the radio too loud for his rapid breathing to invite any concern. God, this was bad. This was really, really bad. Now _Jefferson_ of all people knew, and he had sworn secrecy, but if Alex knew anything, it was that he could hardly count on the good word of a classical musician, let alone a violinist.

      And then of course there was James Reynolds. Alex could still remember the sneer on the other boy’s face as Alex had babbled excuses, none of which seemed to stick. Thankfully the boy had seemed more focused on arguing with Maria than on beating Alex to a bloody pulp, but his hissed, “and just wait until your _girlfriend_ hears about this,” before he had gone back to ranting had set Alex’s teeth on edge. James definitely didn’t have Eliza’s number, and there were still two days left until school officially started, but what then? And what about Jefferson? He didn’t think he could stand having this night’s events twisted around by the two of them. No, if Eliza had to find out about this, it was better he tell it in his own words.

      By the time Laurens reached the end of Monticello Street, Alex was already furiously typing out an opening paragraph on his phone.

* * *

 

      Abigail Smith woke precisely at six o’clock, even though it was a Saturday and technically still winter break. It was very important to get one’s sleep schedule back on track, especially after such a long reprieve, not that Abigail had spent her vacation staying up late partying, but she was still jet lagged from the flight back from Iran, and she had spent most of last night talking to John over the phone about her cousins’ various escapades. What had Mister Franklin said? _“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”_ Abigail had of course asked why the subject had to be a _man,_ but she agreed with the general point.

      To counteract her sleepiness, she poured herself a cup of steaming mint tea and, as it steeped, went to check her email.

      There was one message in her inbox, and it carried the intriguing subject: “For the January Issue.” She checked to see who had sent it and audibly groaned when she saw, but she clicked on it anyway. At the very least, maybe she could tear it apart.

      At first the article seemed like a standard human interest story, which was odd, considering Hamilton’s penchant for social justice rants and convoluted political analyses. About a paragraph in - and the whole article filled around three pages - Abigail’s jaw dropped. By the time she was finished with it, her hands were shaking, and the tea had gone cold.

* * *

 

**MISS ADORABLE**

**MISS ADORABLE:** JOHN.

 **JOHN ADAMS (YOU):** yes dear?

 **MISS ADORABLE:** ALEXANDER HAMILTON INTENDS FOR ME TO PUBLISH AN ARTICLE.

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **oh

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **youre not right?

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **like

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **we hate him

 **MISS ADORABLE:** Of course we do.

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **okay good

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **whats it about?

 **MISS ADORABLE:** It’s a three page confession about how he cheated on his girlfriend with a girl named Maria Lewis, who apparently also has a boyfriend. You know James Reynolds?

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **sweet jesus

 **MISS ADORABLE:** It’s very detailed. Almost too detailed, actually.

 ** **JOHN ADAMS (YOU)** : **youre not publishing it right? its totally gonna screw up his relationship, and mister george would be pissed if you somehow snuck it by him

 **MISS ADORABLE:** Are you kidding me? This is going on the front page.

 **MISS ADORABLE:** And I’m not editing a word of it.

* * *

 

      Lafayette shoved upon the door with as much flourish as one could manage while lugging a french horn. “ _Bonjour, mes amis!_ Sorry I’m late, Paine and I were arguing with _Monsieur_ Robespierre. I don’t care what he says, the effects of the French Revolution did not justify the Reign of -”

      Lafayette stopped.

      The room was deadly silent. This, of course, was completely unusual. Eliza strummed a few chords on her guitar, looking out the window. Her body was tensed, like she was ready to cry or rip something to shreds.

      Angelica was openly glaring at Alex, fists curled. Herc sat awkwardly, trying to avoid prolonged eye contact. Peggy slumped in their chair, blowing sad long notes on their trombone.

      The strangest of all was Alex. Hamilton wasn’t arguing, complaining, or even speaking, for that matter. He simply flipped quietly through the pages of sheet music, trumpet resting on his lap. Lafayette looked around, their cheery disposition gone, sapped by the depressing aura of the room.

      “...What’d I miss?” They asked, to no one in particular.

      Angelica looked up at Lafayette, and they instinctively took a step back, sensing that they had just kicked a hornet’s nest. The senior girl’s face was stiff with rage, jaw firmly set. She took a deep breath and announced, a little louder than necessary, “Hamilton has invited a new kind of stupid.”

* * *

 

      The moment Aaron walked into the orchestra room, he could tell something was off. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and he could feel a crackling tension in the air that reminded Aaron of the moments just before the outbreak of a thunderstorm. Maria and Reynolds weren't speaking to each other, though of course that was normal, but Aaron sensed that this time their animosity foreboded something slightly more serious. Jefferson and Madison were gossiping in the back of the room, which again wasn't unusual, but something compelled Aaron to listen in as he went to unpack his cello.

      “You ever see someone ruin their own relationship like that?” Jefferson was saying, sounding almost gleeful.

     “I can't believe he _published_ it,” Madison replied. “I mean, who does that?”

      “You don’t know the half of it. I would find this a lot funnier if it wasn’t _my_ house where -” Jefferson began, but he appeared to notice Aaron’s eavesdropping and glared at the other boy. Aaron’s face burned, but he tried to focus on his music, which suddenly seemed like an incomprehensible jumble of black lines.

     “How was your break?” Maria asked, and he had to take a moment to process the question before replying,

      “Oh. Fine. Not very exciting. What about you?”

      Maria just gave him a bitter smile. “Extremely exciting,” she said, sounding sarcastic.

      Aaron frowned. “How so?”

      Maria looked about ready to respond, but Van Buren was suddenly walking through the door, on time for once and looking proud of it.

      “All right, let's get back to the grindstone,” he said. “There's a summer scholarship opportunity coming up in a few months that some of you might be interested in, and we've got a lot of new music to get to.”

      Aaron tried to get Maria's attention as the class dragged on, but she seemed almost singularly focused on the Holst piece in front of her. Her fingers moved over the strings of her cello with deadly accuracy, and even Van Buren was forced to comment,

     “Excellent, Maria. I can tell you've been practicing.”

       Maria only shrugged and went back to whipping the music into submission, and Aaron found himself struggling to keep up. When class finally ended, she was out the door like a flash, and Aaron had to struggle to run after her while lugging his cello behind.

      “Hey, wait up,” he called, slipping into the elevator just as the doors closed. Maria immediately pulled out her phone and pretended to ignore him. “Did you and James break up?” He asked, out of breath.

      “What's it to you?”

      “I'd like to know if my congratulations are premature.”

      That at least got a laugh out of the girl. “Yeah, we broke up.”

      Well, that explained a few things. Was that what Jefferson and Madison had been talking about? It was hardly newsworthy, unless James had done something _really_ out of line.

      “What'd he do this time?” Aaron asked.

      “Oh, no,” Maria said, sounding amused. “He didn't do anything, believe it or not. It was my fault. I hooked up with some guy at a New Year’s party and he found out about it. Guess he's less cool with that sort of thing when I'm the one involved.”

      Aaron had to admit that he was a little impressed. “Well, I guess he kind of got what was coming to him. Who's the guy? James didn't rough him up or anything, did he?”

      Maria gave him a bemused smile that seemed entirely inappropriate considering the circumstances. “You have know idea what's going on, do you?” She asked as the elevator came to a stop on the first floor.

      “Sorry?”

      “Have you read the new issue of the _Chronicle?”_

      “Did it come out already?”

      Maria just shook her head and carried her cello out of the elevator. Aaron followed, confused, and his eyes alighted on the fresh stack of newspapers in the conservatory lobby. He didn't make a habit of reading the _Chronicle,_ especially after the fiasco back in October, but he selected a copy from the top of the stack and gave it a cursory glance, wondering what Maria had wanted him to reas. It didn't take him long to find the neat article, set there in black and white for all to see and accompanied by a name that was painfully familiar.

      _The Reynolds Affair._

      Aaron sighed and turned the page.“Oh, Alex…”

* * *

 

**COMMA**

**COMMA:** you had one job

* * *

 

      Angelica had no idea why the smoke alarm was going off at 3:30 in the afternoon, but she strongly suspected that it had something to do with Alexander Hamilton. It had been a private joke between them for some time, making everything Hamilton’s fault. Flunked a test? Hamilton. Big oil spill? Hamilton. Global warming? Probably Hamilton. But Angelica was beginning to take it a little too seriously.

      “Where’s the fire?” Mister Schuyler shouted from his office.

      “All clear,” Angelica called back. “It probably just needs a new battery. I’ll do it.” She heaved a sigh before tossing her English homework aside and peeking out into the hallway. Yep, definitely no fire, but the beeping was beginning to aggravate her. She made short work of the smoke detector before heading back to her room, but she paused at the doorway. There may not have been a fire, but she definitely smelled smoke. She listened for a moment before the soft sound of crying became unmistakable even through the cacophony of Taylor Swift that resonated behind the closed door opposite her room. Angelica sighed again, stepped across the hallway, and knocked on Eliza’s door.

      When she got no response, she knocked again, and when all she heard was more sniffling and pop music, she pushed the door gently open.

      Eliza was lying on the bed with her back to the door, shoulders shaking with each quiet sob. When Eliza cried, she never made a big deal of it, always afraid that she was going to draw attention to herself, but Angelica had grown attuned to her sister’s moods, and right now her radar was pinging. She took a step towards the bed and bumped her shin against the wastebasket, which she quickly realized was the source of the smoke. The charred remains of Alex’s two month anniversary scrapbook lay at the bottom of the basket, still smoldering slightly.

      “Eliza, honey…”

      “I know,” Eliza said, sitting up and wiping beneath her eyes. “I’m being dramatic.”

      “No,” Angelica replied gently, “you’re getting your anger out in a healthy, mostly non-aggressive way.”

      “I should have listened to you,” Eliza moped. “You said I should steer clear of him.”

      “That’s not your fault,” Angelica said, climbing onto the bed and pulling Eliza into a tight hug. “He’s not an asshole all the time. He just happened to be, like, the biggest asshole ever this specific time, but you can’t predict another person’s behavior.”

      “He’s your friend, though,” Eliza murmured, resting her head on Angelica’s shoulder.

      “You’re my _sister,”_ Angelica replied, resolute. “You’re always going to be more important.”

      “Thanks,” Eliza mumbled.

      “I can kick his ass, if you want. Just say the word.”

      “That’s okay,” Eliza giggled, brushing the last of the tears from her cheek.

      “You sure? It’s no problem.”

      “I’ll keep it in mind.”

* * *

 

**JOHN**

**JOHN:** hey

 **ELIIIIZA (YOU):** hello.

 **JOHN:** eliza

 **JOHN:** listen i’m not gonna lie alex fucked up

 **JOHN:** he’s always been compulsive and he doesn’t things through

 **JOHN:** it’s terrible

 **JOHN:** and i’m not trying to justify what he did but

 **JOHN:** i dunno

 **JOHN:** you need to talk to him or something

 ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)** :** no.

 **JOHN:** eliza, please

 **JOHN:** even if it’s just to break up with him - please

 ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)** :** i am not going to waste my time on someone who publishes an article in excruciating detail about how he cheated on me

 ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)** :** that boy is not my responsibility

 ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)** :** i’ve got too much on my plate

 **JOHN:** i’m worried he’ll do something stupid

 **JOHN:** he might be a genius but he has no idea what he’s doing

 **JOHN:** please

 ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)** :** i’ll only talk to him to break up with him. he doesn’t deserve anything else.

* * *

 

      “Why Miss Schuyler, you're on time today!”

      “Well, you know how it is, I can't get enough of learning about financial management.”

      Mister Smith didn't seem to notice the sarcasm and instead beamed broadly. “I'm glad you're becoming so invested in the subject matter. I think you’ll today’s project very interesting.”

      “Sounds great,” Angelica replied without luster, sinking into her seat near the back of the class. A lobotomy probably couldn't have made her any more interested in economics, but she wasn't rushing out the door either. At this point anything was better than going to jazz band; the rhythm section refused to talk to the horns, and it reflected in the music, with Hamilton's normally inspired solos colliding with unmatched cords and dragging time signatures.

      “You'll be working in pairs in an attempt to plan a monthly budget,” Mister Smith continued, addressing the entire class. “Mister North, Mister Walker, you'll be a group…”

      The two boys high fived and immediately set to work on the sheet Mister Smith handed out to them.

      “Mister Adams, Miss Smith.”

      The baritone player gave his girlfriend a wide smile, and Angelica glared at them. Abigail had apparently gotten detention for publishing the article without permission, leaving a stain on her otherwise flawless record, but that was hardly punishment enough. Angelica could understand wanting to get revenge on Alexander Hamilton, but how could she do it through so public a forum? Had she even considered how it might affect the other people involved?

      “Miss Schuyler, you'll be working with… Miss Lewis, how nice of you to join us.”

      Angelica turned to see Maria standing in the doorway, looking like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She was no longer wearing her trademark shade of crimson lipstick, and its absence made her mouth look small and anxious.

      “Do you have a note?”

      “No,” Maria mumbled, slumping into her seat. Mister Smith frowned and scribbled a note to himself. “Miss Lewis, you'll be working with Miss Schuyler. You may use the hallway if you wish.”

      “Do you want to work outside?” Angelica asked politely. Maria’s eyes bulged when she recognized who was talking to her, but she simply shrugged and followed Angelica out the door. “Okay, we have a budget of 3,000 dollars,” Angelica said, sitting down at a table in the hallway and scanning the assignment. “And that needs to cover groceries, rent, clothes, medical bills, and school tuition.” She gave Maria a wry smile. “Apparently we have two kids. We might want to put away five percent for college, maybe ten if we're thinking Ivy League.”

      “Look,” Maria said, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. She still hadn't sat down. “I'm really sorry about what happened with Alex Hamilton.”

      Angelica blinked. “Oh.”

      “I just…” Maria sighed and sagged into a chair. “This was all my fault. I knew he had a girlfriend.”

      “Bitch, _he_ knew he had a girlfriend,” Angelica snapped before she could stop herself. “Look, I’m mad at you, don’t get me wrong, but don’t try to excuse him.”

      Maria nodded tightly. “I was thinking of talking to your sister,” she said. “Do you think I should?”

      “Mmm…” Angelica drummed her fingers on the table. “That’s probably not the best idea.”

     “I was gonna apologize.”

      “Oh, I know, and you should, at some point. Now just isn’t the right time.” She paused and regarded the other girl for a moment before replying, “I’ll let you know when it is.”

      “Okay,” Maria replied, then, “thank you.”

      Angelica smiled. “No problem.”

      “So what are our kids’ names?”

      “Huh?”

      “For the budget thing,” Maria said, gesturing at the paper in Angelica’s hands.

      “Oh, right. Uhh… Maybe Catherine? I kind of like the nickname Kitty?”

      Maria nodded, hiding a smirk. “Okay.”

      “And, uh, Philip?” She blushed. “I don’t know, I haven’t really, you know, thought about it or anything.”

      “Sure you haven’t,” Maria replied slyly, sliding the paper across the desk. “Well, our dear Kitty and Philip are going to be destitute if we don’t get to work. How much do we need for groceries?”

* * *

 

      Aaron definitely wasn’t taking longer than usual to pack up, and he definitely wasn’t lingering in the lobby of the conservatory. He had things to do; he certainly wasn’t wasting time mindlessly checking his phone and glancing at the elevator whenever someone walked out, and he _definitely_ wasn’t waiting for one particular person. That person also _definitely_ wasn’t Alexander Hamilton. That was just ridiculous.

      Fuck. Who was he kidding? In the past few days, he'd probably read that newspaper article more than a dozen times, but even considering Alex’s almost disturbing attention to detail, he felt his knowledge sorely lacking. If only the other boy would _show up_ , maybe he could set the record straight _._ God, Aaron had spent the last four months purposefully avoiding him, and now, the moment he actually had something to say, Alex seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. Except what did he really have to say? It wasn't like they were even _friends_ , not now, anyway. There was no reason for Aaron to care about what the other boy got up to in his spare time. He was just curious, yes, and concerned, but not for Alex, for… Maria. Yes, he was just worried about a fellow musician. A fellow musician who apparently happened to spend her free time making out with Alexander Hamilton.

      It was nothing more than that.

      A door creaked, and Aaron glanced up, hopeful, but the black-haired beauty walking into the lobby wasn't the one he was looking for. Eliza Schuyler looked drained but satisfied, like a garden after a storm, and she nodded curtly to Aaron before picking up her bag and walking out the door. A moment or two later, the door creaked again, and Alex appeared, looking more timid and shaken than Aaron had ever seen him. A million questions were suddenly on the tip of his tongue, but when Alex finally looked up, big dark eyes looking liquid and shy, all that came out was, “That bad, huh?”

      Alex chuckled, but the sound was half-hearted. “It would have been easier if she had just yelled at me.”

      “Give her time.”

      “Yeah, I guess so.” Alex picked his bag up off the floor and slung it over one shoulder. “I haven't seen you in a while. Everything okay?”

       _No. I can’t stop thinking about you and Maria Lewis, which is utterly ridiculous, and it’s driving me batshit crazy._

      “Yeah,” Aaron replied hurriedly. “Everything's peachy.”

      “Cool. I guess I'll see you around.”

       _Don’t go - there’s something I want to ask you._

      “Yeah.” Aaron waited until the other boy was out the door before smacking his forehead and cursing. A perfect opportunity, wasted! But an opportunity for what, exactly? Any question he could think of had already been answered in Alex’s neat, encyclopedic article, but those answers were also open to the entire school. Aaron didn’t know anything that everyone else didn’t already, and even that version of events was bound to be skewed. The only two people who knew the actual truth were Alexander and Maria, and _God,_ Aaron realized with a start; he would have given up his good right arm to be a fly on the wall in the room where it happened.


	6. You're My Funny Valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the author regrets nothing. the author regrets everything.

**ALEX**

**ALEX:** eliza

 ** **ALEX** : **eliza again im so sorry

 ** **ALEX** : **its been a month

 ** **ALEX** : **i just cant stand not talking to you

 ** **ALEX** : **…

 ** **ALEX** : **okay i get it

 ** **ALEX** : **you need time

 ** **ALEX** : **its just

 ** **ALEX** :** i miss you.

[read _8:33 PM_ ]

* * *

      Alexander Hamilton just might regret that night for the rest of his days.

* * *

      Peggy Schuyler could deal with a lot of things, having lived with Angelica and Eliza for almost fifteen years: weird dates, crazy stories from Union Heights, the occasional bout of ranting and slammed doors, mostly from Angelica.

      Alexander Hamilton, however, was not someone Peggy could simply, ‘get used to.’

      Angelica had told them multiple times to stay away from Hamilton, despite the fact that they were apparently the best of friends and had been for years. When he and Eliza had started dating, Peggy had seen Alex pop up more and more around the house, like a lovestruck daisy. He hadn’t seemed like the type to cheat, but then again...

      When Angelica told Peggy, she had slammed the article on the coffee table, delivered several scathing remarks about Alex (and laced them with enough expletives to give a nun a heart attack), and went upstairs to comfort Eliza. The frenzied cursing had died down by then, but from what Peggy had understood, Alex had an insatiable appetite for knowledge, for _everything._ He simply had to know everything, every secret and fact, he _despised_ ignorance - he had to understand - he had to be in the room where it happened. The room where _anything_ happened.

      Peggy hadn’t spoke to Alex since the New Years’ Party - none of the Schuyler siblings had, apart from Eliza to break up with him. It wasn’t something the three had them had ever verbally agreed on, there was no need to speak the assumed.

      Nobody messed with Peggy’s sister and got away with it.

      Still, Peggy couldn’t deal with this. When they had gone to pick up a coffee and some snacks, they found a sobbing mess that vaguely resembled Alexander Hamilton, but more closely resembled an amorphous blob of sleep deprivation and regret. His head lay on the table beside a pile of unfinished papers and unannotated books. The stack only added to his pitiful state; Alex _never_ let anything go unfinished. He always had to be ahead of the curve, the first in the race.

      “This is pathetic,” Peggy said, Schuyler pact temporarily forgotten. They _knew_ Angelica wouldn’t be pleased, but, _God,_ the boy was a _wreck!_

      “I’m not _pathetic!”_ Alex cried, whipping around to face Peggy.

      Peggy blinked, looking at him as he frantically wiped the snot dribbling down his tear-stained face. “Alexander, you’re crying into a cup of coffee on Valentine’s Day in a convenience store run by your doppleganger cashier.”

      “Usnavi and I don’t look anything alike, he’s like, eight years older than me! And his hair is way shorter! Why do people always say that?!” Usnavi looked up from the counter when he was mentioned, before raising an eyebrow and turning back to yell at one of the other employees for being late.  
      Peggy picked up one of the books. “Is this a textbook for college seniors? Why are you studying for this?”

      “I have so much work to do, I can’t just -”

      “You’re pathetic. I’m bringing you home.” Peggy hoisted Alexander up by the collar, waving to the cashier as she pulled Alexander out of the store.

      “‘M sorry, Peggy. I -”

      “I don’t want to hear it. Go home, Alex. Finish your work; you can’t write your way out of this one.”

      Peggy watched as Alex slumped his way back home, weighed down by textbooks and stress, like Atlas, if Atlas had been forced to endure the weight of the world because he pissed off the Schuyler siblings instead of the Olympians. Same difference, really.

       Peggy could deal with a lot of things, but Alexander Hamilton in this state was not one of them.

* * *

**HAMILSQUAD**

**FRESH BAGUETTE:** guess who just got chocolate for a certain someone ( -3-) ~

 **BRAH BRAH:** babe

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** i bought some in france but i ate it all so

 **BRAH BRAH:** </3

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** but the chocolate i have just bought is ghiradelli

 **BRAH BRAH:** <3

 **BRAH BRAH:** ily

 **SMALL TURTLE:** are you guys even dating??

 **BRAH BRAH:** its called bromance, bro

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** why would you think we are dating?

 **SMALL TURTLE:** to be fair you two do seem to have a... special relationship?

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** of course herc is special! il est mon copain! all my friends are special

 **SMALL TURTLE:** but copain can mean boyfriend?

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** i do not understand the specifics of your language, herc is my friend who is also a boy! this would make him a boy friend, non?

 **SMALL TURTLE:** YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU CRUSTY BAGUETTE

 **SMALL TURTLE:** ugh nevermind

 **AND PEGGY:** hercules i had a question and youre not responding to my texts!

 **BRAH BRAH:** dont call me hercules

 **BRAH BRAH:** also what was the question

 **AND PEGGY:** is the plan still on?

 **BRAH BRAH:** hell yeah

 **BRAH BRAH:** i got the supplies

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** a brave soldier on his way to war, return safely, _mon amour_

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** (YOU)** : **please stop flirting I am still not ov

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** (YOU)** : **pressed send too soon

 **BRAH BRAH:** are you ready for this?

 **AND PEGGY:** i mean?? sure??

 **AND PEGGY:** im just as sick of george as everybody else in the conservatory

 **SMALL TURTLE:** a true american hero

 **SMALL TURTLE:** i’m glad when i return i will come home to a free conservatory,,,, filled with the true american spirit

 **SMALL TURTLE:** where asshole white people can’t get away with whatever they want because they have money

 **SMALL TURTLE:** oh wait that’s literally what america is.

 **BRAH BRAH:** lmao

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** (YOU)** :** i am glad you’re coming back because we NEED to get our act together for revfest

 **SMALL TURTLE:** trust me i’ll blow you all away

 ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** **** (YOU)**: **our band is terrible there’s no cooperation

 **AND PEGGY:** yes whos fault is that exactly

 **AND PEGGY:** and ive never seen mr washington so despondent

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** (YOU)** :** we just need to kick george out!! if i work harder we can fix everything it’ll be fine

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** when did you last sleep petit jambon

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** how do you say, kicking george out cannot fix social relationships? you have other commitments

 ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** **** (YOU)**:** unimportant there’s a million things i haven’t done

 ** ** **NONSTOP!!!**** (YOU):** but just you wait

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** : /

 **BRAH BRAH:** meet u at the history dept tomorrow peg

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!!****** (YOU)** : **tomorrow they’ll be more of us!

* * *

 

      “So we’re absolutely, one hundred percent sure that this is going to work?”

      Herc just shook his head and gave Peggy’s an affectionate pat. “Peg, darling,” he said, waving his tape recorder in their face, “let me tell you a story. The year was 1945, and the Young Pioneer Organization of the Soviet Union had just presented a plaque in the shape of the United States seal to the American government. Now unbeknownst to us, that plaque contained a -”

      “Secret listening device, yeah. Which allowed the Russians to covertly eavesdrop on United States secrets for seven years. You’ve told me about this like a hundred times,” Peggy said. “Look, that tape recorder looks like it belongs in 1945. I don’t understand why we couldn’t just use the recording app on my phone.”

      Herc clutched the tape recorder to his chest, offended. “How dare you drag the spy aesthetic through the mud like this.”

      Peggy rolled their eyes. “Look, I don’t care what we’re using to record. We still need to find a hiding spot before Mister George comes back.”

      “Right.” Herc glanced around the office, which was conveniently about twice the size of a normal teacher’s quarters, but Mister George’s interior design style was proving to be frustratingly minimalist.

      “What about here?” Peggy asked, pulling open the door to a janitorial closet in the corner.

      “No way am I fitting in there,” Herc scoffed. “Why exactly did we decide that _I_ was the one who needed to squeeze myself into tiny places? You’re the one who’s like, two feet tall.”

      “I’m the only one who’s actually in Mister George’s class,” Peggy replied. “And don’t act like I never do anything for you; I had to bomb my last test on purpose. If this doesn’t work, I’m screwed.”

      “Fine,” Herc replied. “But can we at least find a less clown-car-ish spot for me to lurk.”

      “Umm…” Peggy squinted around the office. “I guess-” The doorknob suddenly began to turn, and Peggy shoved Herc towards the closet. “Sorry, no time.”

      “But -” Herc started, but the door slammed in his face, just as the door to the office swung wide open.

      “Mister George!” Peggy said brightly, hoping that their voice wasn’t shaking.

      “Miss Schuyler,” the teacher replied with a reptilian grin. Peggy shuddered at the prefix, but they smiled through the discomfort and held up their history binder. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about my last test.”

      “Ah,” Mister George replied, making his way towards his desk. It was remarkable how much he and his son resembled each other - same blond hair, same asshole smile, same face that said ‘please punch me.’ “I recall it wasn’t your best work.”

      “Yes, well,” Peggy replied through clenched teeth, “I’m really struggling with this one unit, and I’d hate to have it affect my grade. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to earn back some credit?”

      Mister George peered up at them over his spectacles. “Now, Miss Schuyler,” he said, trying and failing to sound affectionately paternal, “you know my stance on test corrections.”

      “I know,” Peggy replied, trying to ignore the way their heart was racing, “but I was just so busy with my sister she was so distraught, learning about the Treasury Secretary just didn’t seem so important -”

      “Ah, yes, female hormones, I understand. Girls are just, well, school just doesn’t come as easily, does it?” George smiled knowingly. Peggy resisted the urge to punch him.

      “My dad will be really disappointed if I get anything under a B on my report card.”

      “Ah, yes. Your father. The history of this country is, of course, very important to him, what with his political record. Two terms as state senator, wasn’t it? Very impressive.”

      Peggy nodded vigorously, and Mister George regarded them for a moment before clasping his hands and laying them on the desktop.

      “I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

* * *

 

      Herc sincerely hoped that, when all this was over, the broom in the corner of this closet was at least going to buy him a drink.

      His hand was pressed against the red recording button on the tape recorder, which was pressed flush against the crack in the door.

      “I’m sure I can make an exception for the daughter of a former senator,” Mister George said, his voice muffled.

      Herc bit the inside of his cheek, praying he would have to strength to not jump out of the closet and wring the professor’s scrawny neck. _Child, not daughter,_  he thought to himself, grip tightening against the recorder. _It’ll all be worth it in the end, Herc, calm down._

      And oh boy, was it _ever._

      Fifteen minutes later, Herc grinned as the door to the office shut with a click and he stopped recording.

* * *

 

      Herc slammed the tape recorder triumphantly down on the piano, and the room fell silent

      “Is that -” Alex began, slowly lowering his trumpet.

      “Yep,” Hercules replied with a grin. “One recording of Mister George accepting a two hundred dollar bribe from one Peggy Schuyler, just as ordered.”

      “Oh my God, it actually worked?” Eliza asked, sounding incredulous.

      “Way to go, Peg!” Angelica exclaimed, giving Peggy an affectionate noogie.

      “We did it,” Alex murmured. He still hadn't moved, his face frozen like a statue's.

      “I knew we could count on you, _mon chère_ ,” Lafayette said, planting a kiss on Herc’s cheek and leaving a bright red, lip-shaped mark. Angelica opened her mouth to say something, but she apparently decided that it wasn't worth it.

      “I can't believe we actually did it,” Alex repeated dumbly.

      “Um, Earth to Ham,” Herc said, waving his hand in front of the other boy’s face. “Don't I get a ‘thank you’?”

      Hamilton looked blankly into space for a moment before a smile spread slowly across his face. “You're a genius,” he said, pulling Herc into a tight hug. The drummer grunted in surprise before having the air squeezed out of him. “We're in business!” Alex exclaimed, releasing Hercules only to give Peggy the same treatment. Lafayette and Angelica also received vice-like hugs, no matter how much the oldest Schuyler sister grumbled. “God, I love you guys,” Alex sighed, reaching for Eliza, but she sidestepped him without a word.

      The smile immediately dropped from Alex’s face, and the others exchanged glances in the sudden silence.

      Alex looked about ready to say something, but at that moment, the door opened, and Mister Washington walked in, utterly oblivious. He surveyed the huddled group of students with a critical eye.

      “I'm missing something, aren't I?” No sooner had he asked then Hamilton was upon him, an old-fashioned tape recorder clutched in his hands like it was a precious artifact.

      “Sir,” the trumpeter said breathlessly. “I know this might sound weird, but we need to talk to your wife.”

* * *

 

      Martha Washington sat behind her desk, knees crossed, listening carefully to a scratchy recording and staring at the group of gathered students before her.

_"Your father seems like a good sort of man; I doubt it would matter much to him.”_

_“He does give me a pretty good allowance. Speaking of which…”_

      The student on the tape, Peggy Schuyler, sat nervously in front of the desk, sandwiched between two older classmates. Martha had a great deal of experience with the two older Schuyler sisters: Angelica, who had proved to be a hassle and a half ever since her first day of freshman year, and Eliza, who had never gotten so much as a tardy. Martha had been waiting to see whom Peggy would take after, and she supposed she had her answer.

_“Is that…?”_

_"Two hundred. I can count it if you want.”_

_"Why, Miss Schuyler, I don't know what to say.”_

      “Nobody can resist twenty Lins,” Alex Hamilton murmured, but he fell silent under Martha’s reproachful glare.

_“What was it you wanted, exactly?”_

_“Is an A minus too much to ask?”_

_“On the contrary…”_

      Hamilton reached out and stopped the tape. “See?” He asked excitedly, eyes shining. “You _have_ to fire him.”

      Martha didn’t respond, only stared at Hamilton and mentally recalled what his permanent record looked like. If she remembered correctly, and she most always did, it wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t just one out-of-control student making wild accusations. No, it was a whole band full of them, plus one very incriminating recording. Martha glanced at the door, where her husband was standing, arms crossed. He simply shrugged; it was out of his hands.

      “This recording was obtained secretly,” Martha said, addressing Hamilton. Her voice revealed nothing.

      “Oh, like Mister George would _voluntarily_ record himself accepting bribes,” the boy scoffed.

      Martha reached across the table and carefully picked up the tape recorder. She could see herself reflected in the plastic casing - mouth drawn, eyes narrowed beneath a mass of dark hair that had been ironed and brushed into submission that very morning, before all of this ridiculousness had begun.

      “We also have a connection at the _Chronicle,”_ Hamilton piped up. “Now, she doesn’t like me very much at the moment, but I bet she’d be interested in this.”

      Martha didn’t dignify that with a response, only replaced the tape recorder and leaned back in her chair, a lioness in the sun.

      “Did I mention I have a hundred k followers on Twitter?” Hamilton added hopefully, and finally Martha was forced to respond.

      “You’ve made your point,” she said. “This kind of behavior by a teacher is simply unexcusable. There’s no need for blackmail.” Her eyes flickered towards George, who now was leaning against the doorframe, smiling fondly at her. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Martha continued, though the words tasted like vinegar. “I hope you understand how much trouble you’ve caused.”

      Hamilton nodded vigorously. “Believe me, we do.”

* * *

 

      John Laurens squinted, frowned, erased the line he just drew, and tried again. The seal continued to stare at him curiously, unable to comprehend why this odd two-legged creature had been staring at it for the past half hour, and, eventually deciding it didn’t care, flopped off its rock and into the water.

      “No,” Laurens whispered as his model swam away. With a sigh, he began to pack up his sketchbook and pencils, shoving them haphazardly into his backpack and slinging them over his shoulder.

      He wouldn’t have been having so much trouble if his art teacher, Mister Revere, hadn’t decided that he wanted all his students to _“try something different”_ for their final project. _“That means no turtles,”_ he had said specifically to John before suggesting that the boy try his hand at engraving, a suggestion John had, for what seemed like the sixth time (what was it with Mister Revere and engravings? Christ, the man would probably engrave someone’s murder) heartily refused.

      Well, the joke was on Mister Revere; if Laurens couldn’t draw turtles, he would just have to draw something else that swam. If only his subjects would stop swimming _away_ …

      Laurens was relieved to be going back to band. Art had been fun and all, but he was finally going to be back among friends, and just in time for RevFest, too!

      He left the aquarium in high spirits and was waiting for the light to turn before starting across the street when felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He retrieved it as he stepped into the street, smiling fondly when he saw Hamilton’s name lighting up his notifications. He unlocked the phone and began to type out a reply just as he hit the middle of the crosswalk.

      If he had been paying attention, he might have noticed the truck careening down the street towards him. If the truck driver had been paying attention instead of reaching to change the radio station, he might have seen the freckled boy crossing the street. Either would have been enough to stop the whole thing from happening.

     But neither of them were paying any attention. And so it wasn’t enough.

* * *

 

**SMALL TURTLE**

**********NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** LAURENS!!!! LAURENS!!

 ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** THEY’RE GOING TO KICK MR GEORGE OUT!! AND HIS SON IS LEAVING WITH HIM!!

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** WE WON!! WE WON!!!!

_(SMALL TURTLE is typing...)_

**********NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** sure we might have lost most of our budget in the process

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** : **BUT WE WON!!!!!!!

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** you know it’s considered rude not to respond to someone’s texts

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** hello?

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** : **well once you’re done drawing text me back

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** ......

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** you never turn off your phone why’d you have to do it now

 ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)****** : **laurens?

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** : **john?


	7. Can You Imagine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating, both of us were on a trip (a music trip, ironically) and didn't have a lot of time to write, but here we are!  
> (we realized a few days in that this was literally the worst time to take a hiatus but haha that's how it goes)  
> (please don't hate us)

       A phone rings in the middle of the street, scattered mere feet away from an open palm.

       _“Hey, sorry to whoever’s calling,”_ the automated voicemail begins. “ _I_ _can’t answer right now, so leave a message or text me."_

       _“I’ll call you back later.”_

* * *

 

**ELIZA**

**ELIZA:** have you heard

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** heard what? eliza i’m sorry about maria i never meant to hurt you

 **ELIZA:** alex this isn’t about that it’s about laurens

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** :** what about john, did he do something?

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** : **eliza?

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** : **what happened to john?

 ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)******** : **eliza what’s wrong

 **ELIZA:** hes in the hospital

 **ELIZA:** alex im sorry

 **ELIZA:** im so sorry

* * *

       The world turned upside-down.

* * *

 

_Down, down._

      Alex has always hated hospitals.

      Even as he rushes through the double doors, his chest begins to grow tight, his vision hazy as the smell of disinfectant and morphine assaults his senses, the memories slamming into him like the truck that - _that_ -

 _(It’s not real, it_ **_can’t_ ** _be real he was just there_ **_Laurens_ ** _John_ **_John_** _.)_

      He can remember the hospital back on Nevis, the virus, his mother’s bed pushed up next to his own, the nurse bending over him, telling him _just count to ten, all right?_ as she pushed the needle into his arm. _That’s right; you’re acting just like a grown up. With me now, one, two, three, four… (Can you do it in French?)_ **_Un, deux, trois…_ ** He could remember counting, reaching seven only for everything to fall away into darkness.

      The frenzy of incomprehensible thoughts flicker in and out, _it can’t be real, can it? down_ ** _down_** _There’s no way_ ** _there’s no way_** **_breathe_** _a world turned upside-_ ** _down_** _down_ ** _down_** _One two three four five six seven eight nine one two_ ** _i can’t breathe_** _(un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf -)_

      Somehow he finds the front desk and with a voice shaking asks, “I’m looking for John Laurens?”

       _Stay alive_ **_stay alive_ ** his mind can only rewind _(rewind)_ back to the few memories of his childhood, in the eye of a hurricane there is quiet _for just a moment_ **a yellow sky** _mom_ **_mom? mom wake up -_ **

**** He can remember the sun rising the next day, his fever broken. The nurse had smiled at him and given him a cup of ice to suck on, and he had turned to tell his mother that it was _all okay, now, I’m fine now Mom, but -_

      “He’s on the third floor,” the woman behind the desk says. “I can show you.”

She was holding me _she was sick and she was holding me_ **in the eye of a hurricane** _I didn’t drown_ , he was **silent** _somebody say something what’s going on what’s going on_ ** _count to ten_** _i’m alive_ ** _stay alive_** _can anyone hear me CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME SOMEBODY PLEASE LISTEN_ ** _GET ME OUT GET ME OUT_** _(i can’t see it’s so dark can_ _somebody listen)_ **_can somebody_** _(breathe)_ ** _breathe just_**

 **** Breathe?

 **_Why isn’t she breathing_ ** _(is he breathing)_ **_Why am I breathing?_ ** _is he_

_“I’m so sorry. We think it might have been her heart; the virus may have weakened it. Is there anyone we can call?”_

_No. There’s no one._

      John **John** Is he alive is **_he_** **_can’t die_** _(she couldn’t die but she did)_ ** _why am i still alive_** _if there’s a reason i’m_ ** _still alive_** _when everyone who loves me has_

       _and we_ **_break_ ** _and we make our mistakes_

 **_breathe_ ** _One two three four five six seven eight nine_ **_Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf -_ **

The elevator moves too slowly, but finally he’s there.

      He can remember the shattered town after the hurricane, the streets covered in debris, the wailing voices, the broken shards of trees and houses. He remembers picking up a pen, a frenzy of words _(I wrote my own deliverance)_ but he has nothing to write with, and the thoughts come out in a jumble, trapped in his head.

      The nurse ushers Alex into John’s hospital room, and the sickly all-too-familiar silence reminds Alex of death, but John is lying unconscious and he looks so sick and pale with his hair fanned out across the pillow _(just like)_ **_Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf_ ** _-_

     There’s a bouquet of flowers on the bedside table next to John’s scattered belongings - his sketchbook, his backpack, and -

     ** _a cracked phone_** Alex’s eyes widen and

    _it’s my fault It’s my fault he wasn’t looking he was about to respond he might never wake up_ ** _it’s my fault_** and _he was just here_ and _please wake up_ ** _(why isn’t she moving?)_** _in the eye of a hurricane_ _there is_ _quiet (for just moment)_ _a_ ** _yellow sky_** _I_ can’t breathe _I can’t breathe I can’t -_ A mangled conductor leads a cacophonous crowd of thoughts - **_rise up Rise up RISE UP -_**

       _“Eliza_.” His voice breaks. The words don’t reach. For once, Alexander Hamilton has nothing to say.

      She sits soberly by the bedside, hands clenched but trembling. She looks up as Alex enters, face stained with tear tracks and _she doesn’t deserve this, she can’t take another heartbreak_ -

      “I know, I know,” she says. Her voice teeters dangerously on the same cliff Alex has fallen off the moment he received _that damn text_ and they’re both in so deep **_it’s easier to just swim_** **down** down _Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf -_ His mind stutters like a broken record - _Sept huit neuf - Sept huit neuf -_ ** _sept huit -_**

      Alex sits down next to her, watching John and _he can’t take this_ ** _breathe_** “Is he -” _breathing is he_ _going to survive this? Eliza, did you know?_

       **Mom -**

      “I’m so sorry. The doctor couldn’t promise -  he’s just... they had to perform surgery. He’s in a coma right now.” Eliza’s voice shakes.

      “But...” _I can’t do this again I_ don’t want the answer to _it’s never been a good response_. Eliza doesn’t seem to have a one. They sit in silence, together.

       _It’s quiet._

      “I’m sorry - I know I don’t deserve you, Eliza. If... if you could hear me out...” He trails off, the rest of the words stuck in his ceaseless thoughts.

      _(That would be enough.)_

      They push away the unimaginable.

_(She takes his hand.)_

The hurricane in his head stops, for just a moment. Her touch quiets his pulse, and the sky clears.

      Forgiveness.

_(Can you imagine?)_

* * *

      He goes to school the next day. _(I have so much work to do.)_

* * *

 

      Aaron Burr had never felt better. He was maintaining his 4.0 in spite of crazily overbearing teachers, he was excelling in orchestra, as he knew he would, he had a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend (who even he could admit was way out of his league), and, best of all, he had managed to avoid Alexander Hamilton for almost an entire month. He found that, when he and Hamilton’s paths didn’t cross, his grades improved, he slept better, he felt more alert, and he was just generally... miserable.

      He lugged his cello into the orchestra room, once again convincing himself that life couldn’t be better, and had his veneer of goodwill rudely shattered by the solemn scene laid out before him. The mere fact that James Reynolds and Maria Lewis were talking to each other, not arguing or sitting apart in Arctic silence, should have been enough to clue Aaron into the fact that something was not right here, but he went to sit anyway and attempted to listen in on their conversation, but they spoke in hushed tones he couldn’t make out, and the new second violinist, a small latino freshman by the name of James Monroe, wasn’t helping matters. Van Buren had called him in last minute after the King George debacle, and the apparent child prodigy was making up for lost time by constantly practicing the same etudes over and over again, even though they sounded just as impeccable the hundredth time as they did the first. He even managed to block out Jefferson and Madison’s gossiping, loud as it was.

      Aaron put it out of his mind for the time being and listened attentively to Mister Van Buren, who, predictably, stumbled in three minutes late. “I just wanted to let you all know about a summer opportunity coming up,” he said once he has gotten all his things in order. “The Continental Conservatory is looking for seniors to teach classes to younger students this July, and the interview is this month. Now, I know most of you have already sent in your college applications, but this is the sort of thing that gives you a last-minute boost, not that you should apply purely for that, but-”

      Aaron pretty much tuned him out after that. This was exactly the sort of thing he was looking for when he had first joined orchestra; that job was his. Then he saw Jefferson lean over to whisper something to Madison, and he realized he was going to have to fight for it.

      “Oh, and I know you and the jazz band have never been on the best of terms,” Van Buren continued, “but could you please put that all aside for now while they go through this difficult time.”

      “Wait, what?” Aaron asked, suddenly shocked back to reality.

      “You haven’t heard?” Maria said, sounding surprised.

      “I don’t really talk to anyone in the jazz band.”

      “It happened just the other day,” Maria explained with wide eyes. “Their clarinet player got hit by a truck uptown . They didn’t think he would make it at first.”

      “John?” Aaron asked, incredulous. “John Laurens? Is he all right?”

      “He’s okay, yeah, but they don’t know if he’ll ever walk again. I can’t believe you didn’t already hear about this.”

      “Yes, so remember to be sensitive,” Van Buren continued, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. “Let’s take it from measure thirty-six.”

      For once in his life, Aaron misses every single note.

* * *

 

**HAMILSQUAD**

**********ELIIIIZA (YOU)******** : **hello everyone

 **HMULL:** hey

 **LAF:** hey eliza

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **is everyone okay? where are all of you?

 **HMULL:** home

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **i’m at the hospital right now

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **laurens is getting better

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **he hasn’t woken up yet

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **is alex okay

 **HMULL:** i dont think hes slept in a while

 **LAF:** oui this morning he looked exhausted

 **LAF:** and did not tell me if he slept

 **ALEX:** i’m fine

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **alexander

 **ALEX:** i’m fine i swear i’m okay

 **LAF:** you are clearly not

 **ALEX:** did you hear about the budget?

 **LAF:** quoi

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** :** what about it?

 **ALEX:** george is gone so the conservatory basically lost most of its funding

 **ALEX:** i mean i knew it was bad but this is ridiculous christ wyh

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **alex

 **ALEX:** we have to do _something_ about this we have to fix this otherwise it’ll all go to shit i mean i wouldn’t be surprised if the budget was six dollars and a half eaten pb &j

 **ALEX:** pb&j is disgusting just like the way art is treated in schools WE DON’T NEED ANOTHER SPORTS FIELD FOR SWEATY ASSHOLES TO DOGPILE EACH OTHER

 **ALEX:** this is a fucking wreck

 **ALEX:** i mean let’s think about this why doesn’t anyone care

 **LAF:** where are you it’s lunch

 **ALEX:** i’m in the library i’m fine

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **alex

 **ALEX:** i’m fine!

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** :** i’m coming over there with food

 **ALEX:** no i’m good don’t worry about me

 **LAF:** he has also not washed in a while

 **ALEX:** i’m good

 **ALEX:** i just need to finish writing this down

 **HMULL:** you need to sleep

 **HMULL:** health > everything

 **ALEX:** i’ll be okay others have it worse

 ** ** ** ** ** **ELIIIIZA (YOU)********** : **found him

 **ALEX:** eliza i’m not hungry

* * *

 

      Maria Reynolds hated almost everything about the sleep-inducing 80 minute block also known as Economics. Everyone in the class was preoccupied with what had happened to Laurens - even if not many people outside the conservatory knew him, news always traveled quickly.

      Angelica Schuyler, the only silver lining when it came to this class, was, to put it simply, a mess. Her hair, usually beautifully curled and draped in waves, was tangled and held up in a lazy ponytail. Her sharp brown eyes were rimmed with red and sunken amid sleepless bruises.

     “Are... you okay?” Maria whispered to her, trying not to attract Mister Adams’ attention as he prattled on about divisions of labor.

     Angelica jerked up, blinking. “Hm? Sorry, what were you saying?”

      _Well, I guess there’s my answer._ “Are you okay? I heard about what happened to Laurens and- ”

      Angelica twirled a lock of her messy hair, biting her lip. “I’m fine. I -” She took  a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

       _Okay._

“Mister Adams?” Abigail Smith asked, raising her hand politely.

      “Yes?” Mister Smith replied, looking heartbroken to have been interrupted in his impassioned speech about the American Dream.

      “Weren't you going to hand our tests back?”

      A collective groan went up from the rest of the class; even John Adams winced and turned to his girlfriend, looking betrayed.

      “That's right!” Mister Adams said brightly. “These were a bit all over the place, but since one student did indeed get a full score, I will not be grading on a curve.”

      Another groan, this time followed by whispers as everyone swapped theories on who the mystery student was, with Abigail appearing to be top choice. Mister Adams pulled the tests out of his messenger bag, shuffled them, and started passing them out to the students in the front row. Maria leaned forward and caught a glimpse of Abigail’s test as it fluttered onto her desk - 99 percent - pretty damn good, considering, but the other girl didn't look too happy about it. The rest of the class seemed pretty divided when it came to reactions; Mercy Warren just shrugged, Benjamin Walker punched the air, Will North cursed under his breath. Angelica glanced up, looking disoriented, and accepted her test from Mister Adams’s outstretched hand. She took one look at it and let her head fall to her desk, vocal cords producing a low whine that Maria had thought unique to broken radiators and dying animals. Maria frowned and leaned over to ask the other girl if she was okay, but she found her way blocked by Mister Adams, who handed over her test with a flourish and said, “Well done.”

      Maria looked down, mildly surprised, at a full score.

      “What did you get?” Angelica asked once Mister Adams had moved on. Maria blushed and flashed the front of her test, watching as Angelica’s eyes widened and she let out a groan, showing Maria her own score. 64 percent. Ouch.

      “Sorry,” Maria said, wincing sympathetically.

      “God, it's just this one class,” Angelica moaned. “I’m fine with English and History, but Math is kicking my ass.”

      “Do you need a tutor?” Maria asked, a little too quickly. “I mean,”she added, blushing, “do you want one?”

      “That would be really nice, actually,” Angelica said. “Why, you offering?”

      “Well, I mean,” Maria stuttered, gesturing vaguely at her test, “I kind of already know all this stuff. Do you want to come over after school? Unless that's weird.”

      “No,” Angelica replied with a half smile. “Not so weird.”

      “Oh my God, you got a hundred?” Maria turned to see Thomas Paine staring over her shoulder at the paper on her desk. He glared at her before sitting back in his own seat. “Gee, thanks for wrecking the curve.”

      “Seriously?” Another student said, and Maria suddenly found herself being set upon from all sides by a dozen angry seniors. She sank down into her chair, half wanting for the ground to open up and swallow her but also unable to keep the pleased smile off her face.

* * *

 

      Laurens was, oddly enough, dreaming about his father. He hadn't seen Henry Laurens since he had left for school in September, forsaking the rest of his family in South Carolina, but if he never had to see the man again as long as he lived, it would be too soon. In his dream, his father was telling him to think about his future: _“You could take over the family business, find a nice girl and settle down here.”_

      Even in the dream, Laurens didn't have the patience to explain _again_ to him exactly why that isn't an option.

       _“You’ve got to think about your family. Family’s the most important thing.”_

      _The most important thing?_ \- Laurens’ senses snapped back to reality, out of dreamland, because he _did_ have a family and they weren't in this gray limbo between life and death, between sleep and alertness. He needed to get back to _them._

      Henry Laurens’ face was emotionless as the same broken speech flooded from his mouth again and _again,_ and it meant nothing to John. He was past patiently waiting, he needed to _go go go -_

     “No!” John heard himself say, and suddenly he was running and his _time’s up, rise up, wise up -_

      Eyes up.

Someone whispered, except _he_ never whispered he always had to yell to be heard,  **"** **What are you waiting for?"**

      The world turned upside-down, and disappeared.

      “John?”

      Laurens’ eyes fluttered open and focused on the ecstatic face in front of him. Dark eyes and hair, wide grin, who else but Alex Hamilton?

      “Hey babygirl,” John croaked. “How long have I been out?”

      “Like a week, dude,” Alex said, moisture springing to his eyes even as he tried to smile. “But you're awake now.”

      A nurse in white bent to check his vitals, and John slowly turned his head to see Eliza sitting on the other side of his bed, looking tired but radiant.

      “Hey,” she said.

      “Hey.”

      There was a knock at the door, and John looked up to see a skinny boy with a shaved head standing just outside, coat draped awkwardly over one arm. John had never seen Aaron Burr look so meek. “Is this not a good time?” He asked. “I can come back later.”

      “No, come in,” John said. “You're right on time. I guess I wasn't such great company a few minutes ago.”

      “He just woke up,” Alex explained.

      “I only just heard,” Burr said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

      “Kind of like I got hit by a truck,” Laurens replied, staring down at the thick white cast that covered him from the chest down, leaving only his arms free. He sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow. “All right, tell me how bad it is.”

      Alex and Eliza exchanged a glance. “Well,” Eliza began, “your lower spine is broken.”

      “Huh, that might explain why I can't feel my legs.”

      “Two of your ribs are cracked, too,” Alex added. “You had some internal bleeding, oh, and a concussion.”

      “Terrific.”

      “But you’re not dead!” Alex raised his hand like he’s just scored a touchdown.

      “There is that.”

      “If you need anything -” Burr began.

      “I could go for some pancakes,” Laurens said. “Do you think I can ask the nurse to bring me pancakes?”

      “How about some water first?” Eliza suggested.

      “Sure.” He raised his head slightly and waited for Eliza to bring the cup to his chapped lips before taking a sip. The cool water was a balm to his parched mouth and throat. “Thanks.” His gaze strayed to Burr, looking uncomfortable and fidgety in a chair in the corner. “Hey, I haven't talked to you in forever, man; how have you been?”

      Burr blinked as if surprised that Laurens had deigned to speak to him. “Oh, I’m fine.”

      Laurens thought he remembered hearing something about the other boy, something Herc and Laf had told him, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. Memories from the days just before the accident were all muddled and fragmented, like someone had put them in a jar and shaken them. All of a sudden the memory clicked, and Laurens’ face broke into a wide grin. “Just fine?” He asked. “‘Cause a little bird told me you've got somebody on the side, Burr.”

      If it had been physically possible for the other boy to go pale, he would've. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”

      “Come on,” Laurens teased. “What are you trying to hide?”

      “Burr has a girlfriend?” Alex asked, sounding incredulous. “Who is she?”

       _Little presumptuous, Alex,_ Laurens thought. Aaron Burr was about as straight as a slinky, and Laurens knew it, even if Hamilton didn't, although if Laf and Herc had been right in their assumption, it was only a matter of time before he found out.

      “How do you know about this?” Burr asked accusingly.

      “It’s a really popular coffee shop, dude.”

      “What coffee shop?” Alex asked, knees bouncing excitedly.

      “I should probably go,” Burr said as he started to gathered up his coat.

      “No, stay!” Alex pleaded. “I’ll shut up, I promise.”

      Laurens found that unlikely, but Burr was already on his way out the door, where he found his way blocked by a tall man in a sober gray suit.

      “Am I interrupting something?” Henry Laurens asked, squinting around the room at the people gathered around his son’s bed. Laurens felt his heart sink. _Didn’t even miss him in the dream._

      “It's fine,” he said with a sigh. “Long time no see.”

      “Why didn't you call? I just found out this morning and couldn’t leave work,” his father said, shoving his way past Burr and into the hospital room.

      “I was in a coma, Dad.” _Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me,_ John wanted to say, but something inside him pulled away.

      Mister Laurens took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fully composed, he turned to Eliza and asked, “Could I have a moment alone with my son?”

      “Laurens?” Alex asked, a note of concern in his voice. His hands were already balled into fists.

      “I'll be fine,” Laurens said. He would like to avoid a duel between his father and Alexander Hamilton if he could; he really didn’t want a hospital roommate.

      Alex and Eliza picked themselves up and crossed to the door. Eliza threw a worried glance over her shoulder, but Laurens gave her what he hoped was a reassuring thumbs-up. Then it was just him and his father.

      Mister Laurens sat carefully in one of the chairs, all his earlier irritation replaced with a quiet sternness. “I hope you know how happy I am that you're okay,” he said tightly.

      “I'm really not,” John sighed. “I'm really not okay.”

      Mister Laurens nodded at that, more forthcoming than John had ever seen him. “What did the doctor say?”

      “Well, I’m not going to be out on the rice farms any time soon, if that’s what you’re asking,” John replied. “Nope, you can just stick me in a nice, wheelchair-accessible office.”

      “My God.”

      “There’s also some broken ribs and shit, but that’s old news. The doctors back home must have thought I had a real active childhood, always falling out of trees and walking into doors…” John’s voice broke, any attempt at light-heartedness failing as he struggled not to let his father see him cry. Not again.

      “John, you know I-” Henry Laurens began, looking pained, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish.

       John did it for him.

      “You did it because you loved me. Yeah, I know. I know.”

* * *

 

      “Burr, wait!”

      The floor didn't seem inclined to swallow him whole anytime soon, so Aaron forced a smile and turned to face the breathless boy racing towards him. Alex stopped to catch his breath and offered a sheepish grin.

      “Sorry about that; I know Laurens wasn't trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”

      “That's pretty much all he ever does,” Aaron reminded him.

      “Okay, true,” Alex admitted. “But that means he's getting better, right? Anyway, about this girl -”

      “Can we not?”

      “Come on,” Alex pleaded. “You didn't change your Facebook status, and you didn't even post anything on Twitter!”

      “You follow me on Twitter?”

      “Of course I do,” Alex said dismissively. “Anyway, what gives?”

      Aaron sighed and glanced around the hallway, even though it was unlikely that John Prevost was lurking in the halls of a New York hospital when Theo had assured Aaron that, yes, Aaron, he’s still at college in Georgia, nearly 800 miles away, Aaron, so calm down. “We're trying to keep our relationship on the down low,” he said quietly.

      “What? Why?” Alex asked, as if he couldn't imagine a world where people didn't live stream their first dates on Snapchat.

      “She kind of has a boyfriend.”

      “I see,” Alex said with a wince.

      “A fiancé, actually.”

      “Oh, shit.”

      “Yeah, so can you maybe not mention this to anyone?”

     “Totally,” Hamilton replied without hesitation, still looking shocked, just as Aaron expected he would be. Somehow it was less satisfying in real life. “And hey,” Alex continued, “I’m not gonna judge you or anything.”

      “Well, you can’t really,” Aaron replied, shifting awkwardly towards the door.

      Alex rubbed the back of his neck and gave a half-hearted chuckle. “No, I suppose I can’t.”

      “Yeah… See you around, I guess.”

      “Yeah. Thanks for coming; I think Laurens really appreciated it.”

      Burr thought he heard an _‘ **I**_ _really appreciated it’_ in there, but he was probably just imagining it. “Any time,” he replied after an awkward pause.

      He made it an impressive three feet past the hospital doors before he came to halt, smacked his forehead, and cursed loudly, startling a nearby pigeon, which glared at him before flying away over his head.

* * *

 

**WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER ( <3)**

**MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU):** is the interview today?

 **WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER ( <3): **haha whoops

 **WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER ( <3): **guess i better think of something to say

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** : **dude

* * *

 

      “Aaron Burr, sir!”

      Aaron looked up to see a soaking wet Alexander Hamilton in a yellow rain slicker come striding across the lobby, a stupid grin plastered across his face.

      “Oh, hey,” Aaron replied, trying to sound casual as he went back to searching frantically among the backpacks on the ground, looking for a flash of red.

      Alex’s face fell. “‘Oh, hey’? That’s all I get?”

      “Sorry; I can’t find my umbrella. It’s red - have you seen it?”

      Alex glanced around the lobby and shrugged. “Sorry. It’s really not that bad out there, though.”

      “So you’re just, what? In the habit of showering with your clothes on?”

      Alex laughed at that and shook the water off his sleeves. “The weather’s way worse on St. Croix. This is like, barely humid.”

      “Well, I gotta run,” Aaron said, deciding somewhat sadly that the umbrella was a lost cause. “I have an interview to get to.”

      “Wait!” Alex exclaimed, reaching out and catching Aaron around the wrist just as he started for the door. Aaron stiffened at the contact, but the other boy didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve been looking for you. I need a favor.”

      “I’m getting nervous.”

      “Nothing like that,” Alex said with a chuckle, mercifully releasing his grip on the other boy’s arm. “It’s just that RevFest is coming up next month, and we can’t really go on without Laurens ‘cause he won’t be out of the hospital until, like, mid-July.”

      “Can’t you just do without his part?”

      “No man, he’s like, our number one soloist! And we don’t have another clarinet.” It was then that Alex’s face broke into a broad grin. “Then I remembered you.”

       _No._ Alex started to babble on, but Aaron had already tuned him out. _He can’t possibly think - no way. This is not happening right now._

“Anyway, we’d just need you to come to weekly rehearsals and memorize a few charts, but-”

      “No.”

      Alex blinked, like he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard Aaron right. “Sorry, what?”

      “No. I’m not doing it.”

      Genuine confusion. “But -”

      “Alex, I haven’t played jazz in a year. I have other commitments.”

      “Pssh,” Alex said, waving his hand dismissively. “Like orchestra? That’s not important.”

      “It is to me, Alexander,” Aaron replied. His voice had adopted a dangerous tenor, but the other boy seemed oblivious. “I quit the band for a reason, and I’m not going crawling back to Washington when he wasn’t giving me the opportunities I needed.”

      “Oh my God,” Alex groaned. “Is this about your stupid college application again? You know you’re getting into Princeton no matter what you do.”

      “I don’t know that for sure.”

      “Burr,” Alex whined, “this is about the whole music department. Ever since George got kicked out, we’ve had zero budget.”

      “Mostly your fault.”

      “That’s besides the point. If we win RevFest, that’s more prestige for the school, and hopefully they’ll stop funneling all the money towards the fucking football team. See, it’s not just the jazz department, it’s the whole conservatory! You _have_ to do it.”

      “I’m sorry, Hamilton, but I just can’t,” Aaron replied coolly, ignoring the way Alex looked like he’d just been flattened by a train. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be somewhere. You know, prior commitments to fulfill and all.” He pushed past Hamilton, not waiting for the other boy’s response, and stepped out into the rain.

      “Burr, wait!” Hamilton cried, rushing after him, but Aaron didn’t look back.

      He tried to convince himself that he had a perfectly legitimate excuse for refusing, and, in a way, he did.

       _Sorry Hamilton,_ he thought as he stalked towards the senior parking lot, braced against the slicing rain, _but no way am I going back to seeing your stupid face three times a week. Not when I can’t stop thinking about -_ He breathed a deep sigh, wiped the rain from his face, and resolved not to think about Alexander Hamilton or his absurdly perfect face anymore. It just wasn’t worth the aggravation.

* * *

 

**THEO**

**THEO:** how did the interview go?

 **BURR (YOU):** Very well

 **THEO:** nice

* * *

**WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER <3**

**MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU):** Thomas howd the interview go

 **WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER <3: **excellent

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** : **Nice

* * *

 

**NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)**

**NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : Hey alex

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : This might not be the best time but I need your advice

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: what do you need?

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : So I’m helping decide who gets to lead this music tutoring program - maybe you heard about it?

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: yes

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : Well there are these two candidates who seem

 **NOT GAY JOHN(MARSHALL)** : Weirdly overqualified

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : And I can’t decide between the two, and both go to your school

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : Maybe you’ve heard of them? Can you help me decide

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: who are they

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: if they’re in the conservatory i probably know them

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : aaron burr and thomas jefferson

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **oh my god

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : What’s wrong with them?

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: where should i start

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: jefferson’s a piece of shit

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **burr is also a piece of shit

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : So far it’s a tie

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : None of us can decide

 **NOT GAY JOHN(MARSHALL)** : Alex?

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : Everyone on the panel needs to put in our vote by tomorrow

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: jefferson has mine

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : really?  
 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ******************

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: i have never agreed with jefferson once

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: we’ve disagreed on like 75 different fronts

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: but when all said and done

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: at least jefferson has beliefs

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: burr has  _none_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **he’s just so fucking indecisive

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **jefferson is batshit crazy about music.

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **he’s annoying as hell and i would 100% punch him if i had the chance

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **but between him and burr? burr’s probably just doing it for the college apps

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **wouldn’t be the first time

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : Ah

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)** : Well, we can take that into account

 **NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL):** Thanks dude

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **NONSTOP!!! (************** YOU)**: **glad i could be of assistance

* * *

 

      “Thomas, can you please sit down. We’re in a moving vehicle.”

      “That’s _Professor Jefferson_ to you now.”

      “Dude, you’re teaching first graders the solfège; it’s not like you’re suddenly a musical scholar.”

      “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my shiny new internship,” Jefferson said smugly, though he conceded and slid into his seat next to Madison just as the bus hit a speedbump, making the instruments loaded in the back rattle.

      The orchestra was on its way to play at some nursing home in the area, which was about as exciting a prospect as a brick wall, but at least it had gotten them all out of their afternoon classes. Burr glared at the two boys from his place in the back, but he resisted the urge to spew the insults he had spent the last few hours concocting.

      “I’m still surprised I got it,” Jefferson continued, sounding uncharacteristically sincere. “They had this one Conservatory graduate on the panel - I think he said his name was John Marshall. You should have _seen_ the look he gave me. I’ll bet he’s a jazz kid; conniving little fuckers, every one of them.”

      “John Marshall?” Madison asked, intrigued. “I know him. Hamilton and I were in his class at the Conservatory. I’ll admit, he’s a little… intense. Hamilton’s still all buddy-buddy with him.”

      “That can’t be,” Jefferson scoffed. “Don’t remind me that you used to dabble in… ‘alternative’ forms of music with that twerp.”

      “Hey,” Madison said, sounding offended. “Don’t get me wrong, Hamilton’s a pissy little shrimp, but Count Basie is every bit as legitimate a composer as Beethoven.”

      “How dare you betray me like this. You’re dead to me.”

      “You’ve gotta stop your obsession with old white dudes, Thomas. It’s a little disturbing.”

      “Sorry about the internship,” Maria whispered across the aisle, and Aaron looked up from his history homework, confused. Once he saw who was talking to him, he just shrugged and went back to furiously scribbling about the American Revolution. “I think you would have been great for the job,” she continued. “At least, I bet you’d brag about it a little less.”

      “That’s for damn sure,” Aaron scoffed as Jefferson and Madison continued to argue, much to the annoyance of everyone else on the bus.

      “I don’t know who this John Marshall guy is, but he sounds like a dick,” Maria added, flopping back in her bus seat and pulling out her phone. She smiled down at a text message she had just received and began typing out a reply. Aaron temporarily abandoned the Battle of Yorktown to peer at the contact name - Angelica Schuyler. There was another bad memory. _You hit on_ **_Angelica Schuyler_** ** _?_** _Jesus, Burr, do you want closed casket or open?_

      “Well, anyone who manages to be friends with both James Madison and Alexander Hamilton is bound to be trouble,” he said with a sigh.

      “Don’t I know it,” Maria said with a chuckle, still focused on her phone. “Not a good idea to get on either of their bad sides.”

      Aaron was about to make some snide remark about Maria getting on Hamilton’s very good indeed side, but suddenly the epiphany hit him sideways, and any words he might have been about to say died on his tongue. If Hamilton was still in touch with his old friend from the Conservatory, and Aaron had just managed to get on the other boy’s very bad indeed side, and Hamilton definitely knew about the internship business, wasn’t it just possible that…

      But Hamilton wasn’t that vindictive, was he?

      Aaron decided after a moment of deliberation that the answer was an unequivocal yes.

* * *

 

      The lobby of the Union Heights Conservatory seemed strangely quiet while class was still in session. Aaron had gotten out of orchestra by complaining of a migraine, even managing to look suitably miserable for Mister Van Buren until he was out of the room, at which point he had straightened, smoothed down his shirt, and crept silently into the lobby, feeling guilty, but only a little. If his hunch was correct, he wasn’t the one who was going to have to answer for misbehavior.

      Hamilton’s backpack wasn’t particularly distinctive, but Burr located it after a few minutes and spent another moment or so rooting around for the other boy’s phone, which he found tucked into the front pocket. Hamilton had a picture of the dynamic trio - Lafayette, Mulligan, and Laurens - as a phone background and, infuriatingly, a four-digit passcode. Aaron murmured a curse under his breath and typed in a random date - 1776 - just in case he got lucky.

      He didn’t.

       _You have two tries left._

Goddamnit.

      Aaron twiddled his thumbs for a moment before typing in ‘aham.’ Hamilton was just self-absorbed enough that it might work.

      It didn’t.

       _You have one try left._

God fucking damnit.

      That’s when Aaron remembered the sickening nose nuzzling, pancake dates at Denny’s, and shaky hand holding at the hospital. He typed ‘JOHN’ in very carefully and watched with satisfaction and a pang of what he refused to acknowledge as jealousy as the screen brightened. He considered scrolling through Hamilton’s other messages, but time was short, and he was a man on a mission. He managed to locate the contact name he was looking for fairly quickly - _NOT GAY JOHN (MARSHALL)_ \- was pretty distinctive, after all. Sure enough, Marshall and Hamilton had exchanged quite a number of texts in the last few days, and, _oh boy_ , Burr’s jaw tightened almost immediately.

      Aaron was slow to anger, but for Alexander Hamilton, he could always make an exception.

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> burr's entire inner monologue consists of "you can't catch me, gay thoughts"


	8. Uptown Fuck Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jaws theme plays*

**From:** a.burr@gmail.com (Burr, Aaron)

 **To:** a.ham@gmail.com (Hamilton, Alexander)

 **Subject:** A Request for an Honest and Straightforward Explanation

 

Dear, Alexander,

 

As of late, I have been wondering how it is that an arrogant, loudmouthed, obnoxious bastard manages to: cheat on his doting girlfriend, publicly humiliate himself by confessing, expect one of his long-time friends to drop everything at his whim, get irrationally angry when said friend politely refuses due to personal reasons, and _then_ use his connections to sabotage that friend’s academic and social pursuits because of said irrational anger? This was, of course, an utter mystery to me, but then I remembered that _you_ might be able to provide a unique insight.

 

Yrs. Truly,

A.Burr

* * *

 

 **From:** a.ham@gmail.com (Hamilton, Alexander)

 **To:** a.burr@gmail.com (Burr, Aaron)

 **Subject:** reply to passive aggressive email

 

Sure, Burr, I’ll tell you.

In fact, I’ll respond through email like you instead of texting or talking to me face to face like every other normal human being on the planet. I don’t care if Madison or whoever told you, here’s my honest answer:

I thought Jefferson would be a better candidate. It wasn’t “sabotage,” so why don’t you take your head out of your ass and get over yourself? It wasn’t because I was angry at you; I was forced to choose between the lesser of two evils.

 

“Yrs. Truly” (what is this, the 1800s?)

A. Ham

PS: do not bring maria or eliza into this.

* * *

 

 **From:** a.burr@gmail.com (Burr, Aaron)

 **To:** a.ham@gmail.com (Hamilton, Alexander)

 **Subject:** re: reply to passive aggressive email

 

 _“It wasn’t because I was angry at you”_ Is that so? Or am I remembering incorrectly when I saw that you told Marshall that I was only doing it for applications and that it _“wouldn’t be the first time”?_ Do you always say that about your friends, or am I just that special?

Yrs. Truly,

A.Burr

* * *

 

 **From:** adotham@gmail.com (Alex Hamilton)

 **To:** adotburr@gmail.com (Aaron Burr)

 **Subject:** re: re: reply to passive aggressive email

 

Were you reading my texts?

Jesus, Burr. This is why no-one trusts you; it’s got nothing to do me. You’re a conniving, amoral, dangerous disgrace with no sense of ethics - is there anything you wouldn’t put on the line to get what you want? Breaking into my phone? Honestly it’s pathetic, and so are you.

You don’t take action, you just wait and wait until something easy comes around so you can jump onto it and take all the rewards without any effort from your part.

You get nothing if you wait for everything. You don’t care about anyone or anything except for yourself, and it is disgusting.

Why don’t you, instead of getting angry over me giving my personal opinion to a close friend who happened to be involved, do something useful with your life instead of sneaking into people’s phones and emailing them about it?

 

I have the honor to be

Your Obdt. St (look, I found something even more archaic and passive-aggressive than “yrs. truly”)

A.Ham

 

P.S. “Do you always say that about your friends, or am I just that special?” we aren’t even _friends._

* * *

 

**A DOT BURR**

**A DOT BURR:** you had better watch yourself

 **YOU:** oh look someone finally decided to start texting

 **YOU:** like a human being

 **YOU:** what are you gonna do?? rosin me to death??

 **A DOT BURR:** listen here you little shit

 **YOU:** come at me bro

_(A DOT BURR is typing…)_

* * *

 

      “Aaron, can you please stop checking your phone and enjoy the movie?”

      “Sorry, yeah, it’s just…” Aaron furiously typed out another response before putting the phone facedown on the coffee table and turning back to Theo with an apologetic smile. “There. All done.”

      She raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like this guy really pushes your buttons.”

      “Ugh, you don’t even know,” Aaron replied, flopping back down on the couch and looping his arm around Theo’s shoulders as he returned his attention to the television screen. “He’s singularly the most irritating person I have ever met in my entire - wait, who’s that guy?”

      Theo groaned and swatted Aaron playfully on the back of the head. “I’m not rewinding. You just have to pay attention.”

      “Okay, okay. Oh; is he the president? Yep, definitely the president. Why is the president there?”

      His phone vibrated against the top of the table, and he reached instinctively for it.

      “Aaron.”

      He reluctantly leaned back, careful of the dangerous tenor in the girl’s voice. Theo was still sitting unbothered on the couch, resplendent even in sweatpants and no makeup to speak of, but Aaron could tell the whole affair was beginning to get on her nerves. “Sorry,” he murmured and was rewarded with a silencing kiss, which set him a little more at ease. Still, he found himself unable to focus on the cheesy action movie Theo had rented; his gaze was inevitably drawn back to the coffee table, where his phone vibrated for a second time barely a minute later, then a third. On the fourth buzz, he snatched the device from the table, saying, “How about I just turn this off?”

      “Yeah, you should do that,” Theo replied caustically, brushing hair off her forehead with a practiced formality.

      Aaron went to hit the power button, but the latest response from Hamilton caught his eye, and fuck no, there was no way he was letting the insufferable shortstack get away with _that._ He was typing out a comeback before he could stop himself.

      “Aaron!”

      “You don’t understand what Hamilton is like!” Aaron exclaimed, flashing the phone screen. “He’s a vindictive little shit who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

      “Doesn’t that sound like someone we know,” Theo murmured, glancing vaguely back at the TV.

      “Okay, that was below the belt.”

      “Just saying.”

      “I don't talk to him for over a month, and then out of the blue he starts _slandering_ me behind my back and messing with my chance at an internship all because I didn’t drop everything to help out with his stupid band. It’s unbelievable!”

      Theo frowned and squinted, like she was remembering something, and Aaron was so absorbed in his phone that he didn’t notice her pick up the remote and hit power.

      “Aaron?”

      “Huh?” He looked up to see Theo sitting on the corner of the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, not looking at him.

      “Were you dating anyone right before you met me?” She asked, still contemplative.

      “What? No.”

      She turned to look at him, half bemused. “So why does this feel like a rebound?”

      Aaron blinked, hesitated for a few seconds, and slowly put the phone back on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”

      “Not sure exactly,” Theo replied. “If you were anyone other than you, I’d say you were seeing someone else.”

     “I’m not, I swear!” Aaron exclaimed.

      “I know, I know, it’s just…” She bit her lip and squinted again. “I just feel you aren’t one hundred percent committed to this. You’re always so sweet, but you’re distracted. I never feel like I have your full attention.”

      Aaron gestured to the phone. “I swear I’ll turn it off.”

      “It’s not that. You never want to go out anywhere with me -”

      “What if someone sees us?”

      “So?”

      Aaron balked. “Hello? Fiancé?”

      “You keep treating that as a get-out-of-jail-free card,” Theo said, sounding very much like a cop in an interrogation room - inquisitive, yet still cool as a cucumber. “I can’t tell if you’re just paranoid or if you don’t want to actually commit to a relationship. Believe me, I can take the heat. There’s something else; you might not even be aware of it.”

      “Hang on,” Aaron said, sitting up straighter so he could get his bearings. “You’re mad at me because of my… subconscious emotional infidelity?”

      “I’m not mad at you,” Theo sighed. “But yeah. That’s the gist of it.”

      “I - I don’t understand.”

      “That’s kind of the problem,” Theo replied with a sad half-smile. “Until you figure out what or who has got you so distracted, I just don’t think this is going to work.”

      “Wait,” Aaron said, the magnitude of the conversation finally hitting him. “Are you… breaking up with me?”

      Theo just sighed. “I’m sorry, Aaron, but one of us has to be the adult in this relationship. You’re doing an admirable job of trying to do that, but I have to be the one who takes responsibility for my own well-being, and right now I guess that means not being together.”

      “I still don’t understand.”

      “Figure it out, Aaron,” Theo said, gentle but firm. “It’ll make sense sooner or later.”

      Aaron just stared blankly at her, still not quite sure how they had gone from domestic bliss to whatever the hell this was in less than fifteen minutes flat, but almost positive that it was entirely Hamilton’s fault.

      “I think you should probably go now,” Theo said, getting to her feet and going to open the door of her apartment.

      “Yeah,” Aaron replied, still dazed. He gathered his things slowly and walked to the door, where Theo was still waiting, expectant. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

      “Call me up when you figure it out, okay? Good luck.”

      And just like that, Aaron found himself in the hallway, the door locking behind him.

      _What just happened? Seriously, what just happened?_

Aaron decided to revise his original assessment; this was definitely, one hundred percent, absolutely, positively Hamilton’s fault.

* * *

 

**A DOT BURR**

**A DOT BURR:** meet me in room 300 after last period today

 **YOU:** okay???

 **YOU:** can i get a non-ominous reason as to why??

 **A DOT BURR:** don’t worry

 **A DOT BURR:** i just want to talk to you

* * *

 

     Angelica Schuyler was definitely not the sort of person to be daydreaming about prom and the color red while she made her way to the conservatory, but here she was. _What dress color goes with red? Does blue look good with red? What about black?_

      “Angelica! Wait up!”

      She turned around to see none other than Maria Lewis sprinting toward her, a hefty packet of sheet music tucked under her arm, looking winded but no worse for it.

      “Oh, hey. Do you need something?”

      Maria blushed slightly. “Oh, I... I just… didn’t really feel like walking by myself?”

      “Well, we can walk over together, if you want,” Angelica suggested, shrugging her shoulders.

      Maria beamed, and her lipstick got Angelica back to thinking about prom and color theory. The other girl twirled a strand over her hair around her finger as the two of them walked towards the conservatory, which was conveniently located across campus from their Economics class. Usually Angelica would complain, but for some reason she didn’t seem to mind.

      “You know, music kind of sucks now that James and I broke up,” Maria said suddenly. “I was really only doing it because _he_ was.”

      Angelica looked over at her with raised eyebrows.“Wait, really?”

      Maria nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I'm more of a theater kid, really, but he was the worst. He was always messing around with other girls and ignored me whenever I wanted to talk about my anxi - personal stuff. I thought if I started doing music we'd at least have something in common, but he just kept ignoring me. I wouldn’t even have minded the whole thing with Catherine if she wasn’t my ex!”

     Something short-circuited in Angelica’s brain. “Wait, ex? As in, ex-girlfriend?”

     Maria blushed and tugged on her hair strand. “Well, yeah. What, did you... think I was straight?”

     Angelica bit her lip, but her heart was pounding with joy. “...Maybe?”

     Maria snorted, and Angelica had to forcibly look away to hide her blushing. “Well, James is, but I’m panromantic. At least I think so - that’s what seems to fit the best. I haven't really told anyone.”

      “Oh. Sorry.”

      “It’s fine,” Maria replied quickly. There was an awkward silence before she asked tentatively, “What about you?”

      “Me? Oh, I’m a lesbian,” Angelica said, waving her hand dismissively. “Girls are way better than boys.”

      “Well, you’re not wrong,” Maria replied with a faint chuckle.

      The two of them walked on in silence, as Angelica was sure any attempt to speak on her part would result in a heap of nervous word vomit. A swirling mass of excitement was beginning to form in her stomach, like a really gay swarm of butterflies, and she was sure she knew the reason. _Go, go, go!_ urged the voice in the back of her head. _This is your shot!_

      “Hey, want to go get... something some time?” She blurted, trying to mask the shakiness in her normally smooth voice. _Suave, Angelica. That was a true masterpiece of articulation and confidence._

      Maria looked up at her with wide eyes.

        _Don’t say no to this,_ Angelica nearly begged.

      “I’d love to!” The other girl stammered after another split second. “Is Friday okay? I don’t have anything after school.”

      “Great! There’s this little ice cream place that’s the best.”

      “Do they have snow cones?” Maria asked sheepishly.

      “You like snowcones?” Angelica asked with a smile.

     “The pink ones are the best.”

      By that point, they had arrived at the entrance to the conservatory. “Well,” Angelica said, “I guess I'll see you Friday?”

      “Yeah, see you then,” Maria replied, smiling as she opened the door.

      “And, Maria?”

      “Hm?”

      “I think you should do theater.”

      “Really?” Maria asked, eyes open and honest.

      “Yeah; you'd be really good at it.”

      As Maria blushed and ducked through the door, Angelica Schuyler felt like she had just been awarded the nobel prize, discovered the cure for cancer, and won the Olympics, all at the same time. No - she felt _better_ than that.

      She felt like she had just scored a date with Maria Lewis. Ten times better.

_I wonder what she looks like singing._

* * *

 

      Aaron was surprised to find himself shaking, though tried to convince himself that it was out of anger. When he raised his arm to open the door to room 300, he saw how bad the tremors had truly become, and his heart sank. _Here goes nothing._ Summoning all the courage he required, he pushed open the door and took in the familiar sight of the jazz room where he had made a home for three years of his life. It felt like coming back after a long trip; the sight of the black-and-white photographs that hung on the wall, the instrument cases stacked on the shelves, and finally, Alexander Hamilton, who was leaning against the piano with his arms crossed. He, too, was familiar.

      “Mister Burr, sir,” he said brightly, tone sour enough to curdle milk. “I see you’ve finally decided to act like a civilized adult and talk to me in person.”

      Burr let the door slam closed behind him and took a deep breath. This would be so much easier if he could just decide on one definitive reason to hate the boy in front of him, but instead there were hundreds: he was selfish, he was proud, he was insensitive, he was rude, he never took the time to think, he was inexplicably attractive- _no_. Now was not the time for that.

      Burr put on his most pleasant smile and replied, “You’re one to talk about acting like an adult. You still seem to delight in petty revenge, much like a small child does.”

      “And you seem to like snooping around in people’s personal belongings,” Alex countered, taking a bold step away from the piano. “What are you, a jealous girlfriend?”

      Aaron also took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “You should not be bringing up girlfriends around me, Hamilton. I’ve got too much material.”

      The reminder of Theo’s calm rejection made Aaron sting a little, but he took a deep breath and said calmly,

      “That’s not the point. I came here because I wanted to ask you what exactly gives you the right to decide what I can and cannot do with my free time.”

      Alex blinked at that, seemingly impressed by Aaron’s ability to keep cool. He took his time before replying. “I’m not saying you can’t do what you want. All I’m saying is you seem to forget that other people exist and are depending on you, and all you seem to care about is your own advancement. You never commit to anything, or any _one_ for that matter.”

      “Are you kidding me?” Aaron countered. It felt as if he’d gotten the breath knocked out of him. “I play music since before I can barely talk, learn how to play _four_ instruments, work my ass off in school to the point where I can skip a grade and still get straight A’s, all for you to say that I can’t _commit_?”

      Alex’s face turned red, which would have been satisfying if he didn’t look so damn adorable when he was angry. _(stop it, Burr. Not now. Not ever)_

      “I never said you weren’t driven,” the other boy spat. “But where does all that energy and drive go? Certainly not towards the people who care about you. You don’t even care that the whole music department might lose its funding. You don’t care that hundreds of kids won’t be able to do what they love. All you care about is-is- getting into _Princeton!”_

      By this point, Aaron had nearly backed Alex up against the piano. The smaller boy was heaving, dark eyes furious and alive. He held Aaron’s gaze like a viper might.

      “You don’t understand,” Aaron said, voice barely above a whisper. “I have to get in. That was my father’s school; he was the one who wanted me to go there. That was the last thing he said before he -” he didn’t let himself finish that sentence.

_We’ll be back in after your bedtime._

_Be careful!_

_Your mother’s from Northampton; she knows how to handle driving through a snowstorm. Now, I told the babysitter that you and Sarah can have half an hour of TV before bedtime, no more. Can’t have you rotting your brain if you’re gonna graduate top of your class, can we now?_

      _(I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.)_

Alex didn’t seem to notice the silence before he was exploding again “Oh, so you think you’ve got some kind of chip on your shoulder. I’m sure my dad would have loved for me to go to Princeton, if he had wanted anything to do with me.” He laughed, and the noise was cruel, an assault on Aaron’s ears. “Yeah, Burr,” he continued, “not all of us orphans get a nice hefty inheritance to sweeten the deal; some of us actually have to work for it.”

       _How dare you. (Of course you dare)_

“You have no idea how much I want to punch you right now,” Aaron growled, but Alex merely laughed and spread his arms, inviting.

      “Go ahead. Like you would actually have the balls to do something as scandalous as break a rule.”

      If Aaron had been just a trifle calmer, he might have considered the fact that Alex was just stressed out. Laurens was in the hospital, RevFest was weeks away; the other boy probably hadn’t slept in days. It wasn’t right to stay mad at Alex, not when he was in this state.

      Except he did. Especially when the other boy just wouldn’t stop _talking_.

      “Your house could be on fire, and you wouldn’t be able to commit to throwing water on it,” he was saying, that insufferably perfect mouth twisting into the cruelest sneer Burr had ever seen, and God he _hated_ him, but it wasn’t even because of the words he was saying, it was because of all the words Aaron wished he could say _to_ him, which all of a sudden were bubbling up and becoming jumbled in his brain -

 _I missed - you don’t know - tried not to think about you - I just - love - so much - I can’t - not anymore_ \- _but -_

      Thousands of fragments that didn’t quite fit together and when they did, the end result was almost too horrifying to mention.

      “I can’t believe I ever thought you were my friend,” Alex grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

      Burr realized with astonishment that he was either going to punch him or kiss him.

      He punched him.

      It wasn’t as hard as he would have liked, but Alex’s head snapped back, and he stumbled backwards into the piano, clutching his mouth and looking suitably surprised. “Oh my God,” he murmured, touching his swollen lip and wincing. “You actually did it.” Then his face broke into a wide grin and he looked up at Aaron with an expression of astonishment. “Good for you, man; you committed to something!”

      Aaron punched him again, harder this time.

      “Okay, that one actually hurt,” Alex said, frowning. “You’ve proved your point.”

      “Actually, I don’t think I have,” Aaron murmured, and, feeling all of a sudden like he was walking on air, he struck Alex again, likely blackening his eye and putting the other boy off balance. Another punch sent him toppling to the floor, blood trickling from his split lip. Aaron drew back a leg to deliver a kick to the ribs, but the sight of the other boy lying curled and groaning beside the piano snapped him back to reality, freezing him in place.

       _What the hell are you doing?_

Alex moaned and drew his arms over his head, protecting himself from another attack, and suddenly Burr felt very cold, like an icicle had just been driven into his heart, and that worse, he had done it to himself. He felt his chest start to tighten as his breathing became ragged - _what do I do? God, is he hurt?_ He suddenly didn’t seem to be getting enough air, and God, he needed to get this binder off before he suffocated, but first he needed to know that Hamilton was _okay,_ that he hadn’t hurt him so badly, because right now he didn’t know, didn’t want to _think_ that he might have…

      “Alex,” he said tentatively, bending at the knees and reaching out his hand, but the other boy only curled tighter into himself. “Alex,” he tried again, “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

      An elbow connected with his nose and sent Burr flying onto his back.

      “You didn’t mean to _what,_ Burr?” Hamilton shouted, climbing to his feet. One eye was already starting to swell closed, and blood was smeared across his chin, making him appear almost savage. Even from his position on the floor, Aaron felt a sharp arrow of guilt strike painfully in his chest, and he didn’t even think to defend himself as Alex lurched forward, still unsteady on his feet.

      “What in God’s name is going on in here?”

      Mister Van Buren’s voice was shrill but still unsettlingly quiet considering how loud the room had been mere seconds ago. The man was standing in the doorway, files under one arm, looking small and very alarmed.

      Burr took a moment to assess the situation - he was on his back, defenseless, and Alex was looming over him, fists clenched, looking like a feral dog.

      Communication was going to be key.

* * *

 

**MON CHER**

**YOU:** herc, mon ami, you will not believe what i have just heard

 **YOU:** it seemed the very trees might lose their leaves from fright

 **MON CHER:** im listening

 **YOU:** now i cannot be sure

 **YOU:** but i believe i just witnessed monsieur washington swearing quite profusely at mister van buren

 **MON CHER:** oh my god???

 **YOU:** specifically the phrase ‘why the fuck are telling me this take me to them right now you damned poltroon’ was used

 **MON CHER:** what did van buren do??

 **MON CHER:** also whats a poltroon?

 **YOU:** je ne sais pas

 **YOU:** although i suspect notre petit lion has something to do with it

 **YOU:** i shall ask him later

* * *

 

     Alex watched as Washington talked quietly on the phone behind his desk, trying not to think about what Van Buren was saying, what _Burr_ might have said, the damn bastard.

 _This it is_ , he thought. _This is the last straw. They’re going to kick you out. Washington warned you about this and now look what you’ve done; god, this was your one shot out and you threw it away! No one’s going to believe me over Burr, not even Washington. And what am I gonna do when I’m kicked out? I don’t have anywhere to go; who’s gonna take me in? Laf? I can’t go to France. Laurens? Who am I kidding._

      “Sit, Alex.”

      Alex sheepishly slid into the chair in front of the desk. Washington remained where he was sitting, solemn.

      “Sir, I don’t know what Burr told you, but he started it! I have proof!” Alex reached for his phone, readying the texts, though he knew they would most likely prove useless.

      Washington sighed. “I know, Alexander. Aaron took full responsibility for everything. He said you were just acting in self-defense.”

      “Burr’s a lying, conniving fu - wait, what?” Alex stopped. “You aren’t… you aren’t mad at me?”

      Washington smiled gently. “No, son. I’m not mad.”

      Alex sighed. “Oh, thank god. Sir, I thought you were going to kick me out.”

      “Why would you think that?”

      “Well, you said that if I was in more trouble then -“

      “I’m not about to punish you for being attacked. I was worried about your school record when applying for colleges, is all. But I wouldn’t ignore the stress you’ve been under lately, not to mention the fact your friend is in the hospital.”

      Alex blushed. “Well… I-”

      Washington leaned forward on his elbows. “Son, I’m a teacher, not a monster.”

      “Believe me, sir, if you were in some of my classes, you wouldn’t know the difference. It doesn’t help that you look terrifying when you’re serious, which is all the time.”

      Washington gave a slight smile, a rarity within itself. “Well, this is a serious matter. Mister Burr has already expressed how sorry he is for all of this, and his three-day suspension will go into effect starting tomorrow, though something like this is really grounds for expulsion -”

     “Please don’t expel him!” Alex exclaimed, rising up nearly an inch out of his chair.

      Washington raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

      “Please, Sir, I-” Alex bit his lip, then grimaced when the torn skin there protested. “I did something I shouldn’t have, and I said a lot of things I didn’t mean. I sort of had it coming.”

      “I’m not sure physical violence is ever an appropriate reaction,” Washington replied, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

      “Thank you,” Alex said, releasing the pent-up breath he had been holding. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

      Washington hesitated, glancing down at his clasped hands, which were rough, brown, and steady.

      “Sir…?”

      Washington took a deep breath and calmly replied, “I’m stepping down from my job. I’m not going to be here next year.”

      Alex stared blankly, mouth slightly agape. “I’m sorry, what?”

      “I’m resigning, son.”

      “No, sir! With everything that’s going on, is this the best time?”

      “I know it’s inconvenient, but it’s what this school needs. If we really are going to lose our budget, the department needs someone to fight for our interests, someone younger and more energetic, and I have to accept the reality of that. I’ve led this band for decades; I don’t want it to collapse when I die.”

      “Sir! Please don’t talk about your -“

      “Alex, listen. I want this group to succeed; I want _you_ to succeed. So, please, put a stop to this infighting and try to get along. I want to win this competition, one last time.”

      Alex bit his lip. “Am I the only person you’ve told?”

      Washington nodded. “I’m planning on announcing it tomorrow during class. Still, Alex.“ He stood, circled the desk, and placed a comforting hand on Alex’s shoulder. “I don’t want to leave this school with a divided student body. I know you have what it takes to unite it again.”

      “…Okay, sir. I’ll see what I can do. But I have one last question.”

      “Yes?”

      “Why did you tell me first?”

      “I didn’t want to have to deal with your reaction in class.”

* * *

 

       _“Mon dieu,_ I had know idea Burr could do this.” Lafayette murmured, staring at the sizable bruise on Alex’s face. The two of them along with Herc sat huddled together around a lunch table, food forgotten ever since Alex had appeared at the table, looking as bruised as a peach and more sheepish than any of them had ever seen him.

      “I have decided,” Laf said, cracking their knuckles loudly one by one, “that I am going to kill Burr. Slowly, and with great enjoyment. _Mon copain,”_ they turned to Herc, “are you, as they say, ‘in?’”

      “No, no, it’s not his fault!” Alex exclaimed, wildly waving one of his hands and holding an icepack to his eye with the other. “I provoked him!”

      Laf stared blankly. “You are... taking responsibility? For being assaulted?”

      Alex sighed. “Yeah, it was my fault, I-” he was tempted to let his head fall onto the tabletop in true sulking fashion, but the throbbing pain in his face aborted the gesture, so he settled for a long sigh. “I won’t get into it right now, but I acted like a real asshole. God, everything’s just gone to shit, hasn’t it? Our budget’s going down the drain unless we win RevFest, Laurens is in the hospital, and, yeah Burr punched me in the face, but more importantly, Washington is _leaving_!”

      “And the prom’s tomorrow!” Mulligan added, slamming his fists against the table and causing the lunch trays to rattle.

      “Actually, _mon copain_ … the prom is in a month,” Lafayette said, reaching up to pat Mulligan on the head. “You are still sewing up that gown _pour moi, non?”_

      Herc nodded affectionately. “You sure you want a dress? I have this design for a tux that I think would look good in violet, but it’s your choice.”

      “I will look like a pretty princess for this prom if it kills me.”

      “Ugh, I can’t even _think_ about prom,” Alex grumbled, taking a sip of water and wincing when the rim of the cup hit his abused lip. “We _need_ Burr if we’re going to win RevFest, but he’ll never agree to help after what I did. I doubt he’ll even listen to me”

      Laf and Herc exchanged a glance, their dislike of the cellist momentarily forgotten. Herc nodded, and Laf turned to Alex, forcing a smile.

      “It seems to me, _mon petit pigeon,_ that you are going to have to use your words.”

      “Did you just call me a _pigeon?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: it's important to note that punching the object of one's affections as a form of emotional catharsis is not recommended and is, in fact, illegal
> 
> these boys just have a habit of expressing themselves through physical violence


	9. Laurens Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is basically just six pages of me typing whatever i would say in this situation.
> 
> the next chapter is REALLY long so. i wrote this

**HAMILSQUAD**

  
**ALL HOMO (YOU):** uuuuuggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** listen i’m pretty sure hospitals are purgatory

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** heads up guys i’m no longer jewish i’m starting a new religion solely based around the fact that hospitals are purgatory.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** confirmed

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** the turtle will be our god

* * *

 

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** this is literally the most boring thing i’ve ever endured. worse than the dinners filled with straight white southerners when i was little.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** here come the heteros

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i will come out of this a stronger and gayer man

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i guess i’ll just draw for now. literally.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **get it because, drawing, like, retreating, and drawing, as in that thing i do where i scribble turtles everywhere

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **i’m underappreciated in my time.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** wow

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** my dad put my sketchbook all the way across the other side of the room

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** damn that’s petty haha

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** guess he really wants his Hetero Masculine Boy

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **[me at a my house] ah yes. the foobaw. i have the fragile masculinity and apparently cannot approach another male within a foot without the warding curse of “no homo.”

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** too late dad, i’m already a gay artist here to ruin our family’s name by drawing and kissing dudes

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **good luck you racist old fuck.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** well i can’t get up so operation draw shit is no-go

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** ehhhhghhhhhhhhhhhnnnnhhhhhhhhh

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** why do you all have classes right now this blows

* * *

 

 **YOU:** .=.e

 **YOU:** look a turtle

* * *

 

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** update: i’ve spent thirty minutes counting the dots on the ceiling

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** there are 1804 dots

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i mean if you’re gonna choose a number why 1804

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **did anything important happen in 1804???

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **didn’t that treasury guy do something?? the fourth president got elected i guess that’s important

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **what’s his name

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **wait wasn’t he the third president not the fourth? he got re-elected right?

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **maybe??

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **i don’t know about history

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **alex i feel like you’d know you like history what was his name

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i think it was dave??

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **or was dave that french guy who came over to fight in the revolution?

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **oh well

* * *

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** who put these dots here

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** asking the real questions

* * *

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i want a turtle onesie

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :**  do you think alex will get me a turtle snuggie now that i’ve been hit by a truck

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **protip for getting presents: get hit by a truck

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** wait how am i supposed to wear a snuggie in a wheelchair

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** do i just like.... slide into it?

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **someone has to pull me into my new turtle snuggie

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **how about it alex ;)

* * *

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** OKAY what the fuck

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** has ANYONE ELSE realized that laf and jefferson look VERY similar???

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i can’t be the only one right?

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** RIGHT???

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** ALL LAF WOULD HAVE TO DO IS PUT THEIR HAIR DOWN WH THE FUCK

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** @LAF EXplAIn

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **WHAT ABOUT MADISON AND HERC

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** SURE HERC’S LIKE SIX FEET TALLER BUT STILL

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** SOMEONE EXPLAIN

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** SOMEONE EXPLAIN!!!!

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** quoi

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** WHY

 **EIFFEL TOWER:**  mon ami what are you talking about?

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** YOU LOOK LIKE JEFFERSON

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** non i do not

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** YES YOU DO!!!!

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** YOU LOOK LIKE JEFFERSON!!!!

 **EIFFEL TOWER:**  i am,, ,how you say. offended. i look far better than he can ever hope to be

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** PUT YOUR HAIR DOWN THEN LOOK IN THE MIRROR!!!

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** non i will prove you wrong

 **EIFFEL TOWER** added **MACARONI FUCKER** to **HAMILSQUAD**

 **MACARONI FUCKER:** what is this

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** this is only temporary. i will remove you once my point is made

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** YOU LOOK LIKE LAF

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** but jefferson, you must disagree, non?

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** we do not look alike at all

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** YES YOU DO

 **MACARONI FUCKER:** it must be the french in me

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** how you say

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** what the fuck

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** you were literally born in america.

 **MACARONI FUCKER:** yes but i am as cultured as the french

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** do not

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i changed my mind i would rather be bored

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** i shall prove you wrong!

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** jefferson, meet me in the cafeteria at noon

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** and also do not speak ever again

 **EIFFEL TOWER** banned **MACARONI FUCKER** from **HAMILSQUAD**

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** THIS CANNOT BE

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** HAH!

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** YOU DO LOOK LIKE JEFFERSON!

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** _[NON!!!!.png]_

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** this is the worst day of my life

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** which one is which you both have your hair down

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** how you say

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** shut up

 **PEGG-O WAFFLES:** trust no-one not even yourself

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** je souhait pour la mort

* * *

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **wow i sure am glad laf came to visit

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **you’re real exciting pal with your sitting in the corner and eating

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** you can just speak to me??

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **yeah but i don’t want to move my face

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **hey so how did jefferson react

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** do not

* * *

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **finally got my computer

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **now i can waste my time by binge watching shows

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **anyone know a good one

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** puella magi madoka magica

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **is this one of those weeb shows

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** oui but it is good

 **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : you’re a _oui_ aboo

 **EIFFEL TOWER** : i am leaving again

* * *

 

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** what’s this shit

* * *

 

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** update: this is still terrible

* * *

 

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** update: hang on what the FUCK

* * *

 

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** WHAT THE FUCK??

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **WAIT NO NO NO NO

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **I DDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS SHIT

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **you MOTEHRFUCKER DON’T TOUCH HER

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **SAYAKA NOOO!!!!

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **WHAT THE FUCK HOMURA

****ALL HOMO (YOU)** : ** _what the fuck_

****ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **HOMURA WHAT THE FUCK?? NO I DID NOT AGREE TO THIS SHE HAS DONE NOTHING WRONG

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **MADOKA NO!!! DON’T DO IT!!

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** THINK ABOUT EVERY HOMURA SACRIFICED FOR YOU YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i fuciking hate you laf i spent five hours on this i didn’t agree to get emotional

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** la vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **i need some time to recover

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **emotionally, and because of my legs. which are broken. like my heart

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** wait until you watch the movie

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** the what

* * *

 **WORK WORK:** What rhymes with heart?

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **snart

 **WORK WORK:** Ugh, nevermind

 **WORK WORK:** Plan b it is

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **wait why??

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **now i wanna know???

* * *

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **hello?? anybody??

 **LITTLE HAMMY:** dear laurens it is 2am

 **LITTLE HAMMY:** most people would be content to waste the night away by sleeping

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **alex dude. sweetie. dear. bro.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** go to sleep

 **LITTLE HAMMY:** YOU AREN’T ASLEEP

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **i’m in the fucking hospital

 **LITTLE HAMMY:** HTAT ISN’T AN EXCUSE

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **i’m going to MAKE you sleep

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i will cart this bed + equipment out of the hospital, onto the road, and into your dorm to make you sleep

 **LITTLE HAMMY:** that’s not even possible

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **just you wait

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** i'm going to come crashing through your window, like a poorly made 90s animated movie.

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** let's go on an adventure to GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP LAND

 **LITTLE HAMMY:** FINE i’ll go to sleep

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** : **nice

 ** **ALL HOMO (YOU)** :** night alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "protip for getting presents: get hit by a truck"  
> don't
> 
> leave a comment! :>


	10. What the Heck I Gotta Do to Be With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mulligan voice] tell alex how you feel, buy the dude a meal on the real or you ain’t got no skills 
> 
> (sorry for the long delay, but the next chapter should be along sooner than usual!)

      Aaron Burr considered himself a rational human being and, as such, had a list of things that he considered completely outside of the realm of possibility. God, the afterlife, the fact that Bernadette Peters was sixty-eight years old; some things he just refused to believe.

      Alexander Hamilton, noted arrogant bastard, standing outside his dorm room at one in the morning, banging on the door and shouting for him to open up, was currently number two on the list. Simply impossible.

      Then again, number one on the list - the realization that he was in fact, head over heels in _love_ with said arrogant bastard - was already proving horrifyingly, devastatingly real, so perhaps he could stand to exercise his imagination a little more.

      “What do you want, Alexander?” He asked sullenly, throwing open the door. Alex froze, fist raised for another knock, before shrinking away, and Burr wished he had at least had the sense to make himself presentable. The shirt and boxers he slept in preserved some of his modesty, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd answered the door without first putting on his binder, let alone his pants. He crossed his arms over his chest, uncomfortable, though Alex wasn't one to poke fun, not like that.

      “You sounded a lot more apologetic earlier,” the smaller boy asked, and the way he bit his swollen lip and winced from the pressure made Aaron wonder again what it would be like to kiss him.

      “I was sorry for getting you in trouble. I'm not sorry for punching you,” he replied irritably, wanting more than anything to go back to bed and pretend this conversation never happened. “I take full responsibility for it, but I don’t regret anything.”

      Alex’s eyes widened, but, after a moment, he nodded. “That’s fair.” Then, “Look, Burr, if you’re not going to apologize, I will.”

      “What?” At the same time the confusion hit him, Burr reminded himself that he _had_ apologized, hadn’t he? In the heat of the moment when he didn’t know what to say? _Alex, God, I’m so sorry._ He had a sudden urge to take back every unkind word he’d ever said to the other boy, but the moment had passed. He hoped it had been enough.

    Hamilton took a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut - Burr noticed with alarm that one socket was purple with bruises; had his hands really done _that_ ? “I’m sorry,” Alex said bluntly. “About the internship, and the passive aggressive emailing, and that thing I said about your parents was just -” he shivered visibly, “just _really_ uncalled for. Actually, I’ve kind of been acting like a dick to you all year, but like, these past couple of weeks have been rough, man. You know, with Laurens in the hospital, and RevFest - God, we still really need you, you know?”

      At this he turned his face upwards, staring at Burr with eyes that seemed almost liquid (Aaron was mostly liquid too, at this point, but who wouldn’t melt at a proclamation like that?). “Washington’s leaving next year, and we might lose our budget, so there’s a lot riding on this competition. More than usual, I mean. And we really can’t do it without you. I know it’s-”

      “I’ll do it.”

      “- a lot to ask to just drop everything and - wait, what?” Alex asked, looking about as confused as Aaron had when he had found himself compelled to answer the door at one AM.

      “I said I’ll do it.”

      “You will?” Alex exclaimed. Aaron barely had time to nod before Alex was flinging his arms around his neck and _no,_ definitely not a good idea to be hugging someone without his binder, because, _ow,_ that hurt, but not as much as the feeling of having Alex in his arms did; that was entirely too painful, and Aaron pushed him away on reflex, hoping Alex wouldn’t think of it as a rejection, but the other boy seemed too elated to notice. “I can’t believe this! I mean, _thank you_ , but- you won’t regret this, I promise.”

      “Hang on,” Aaron said, stopping Alex mid-rant. “I’ll help you, but there’s one thing you have to do for me first.”

      Alex’s smile wavered, but his excitement didn’t seem to diminish. “What? What is it?”

      Aaron stepped back into his room, plucked his phone off its charger, and pulled up the camera app. “Mind repeating all that?”

* * *

**BRO**

**SAM (YOU):** So are we going to prom?

 **BRO:** uh yeah??

 ** **SAM (YOU)** :** But like,

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **as bros right?

 **BRO:** yeah totally

 ** **SAM (YOU)** :** Okay, good.

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **Do you want me to get flowers or something?

 **BRO:** sure why not

 **BRO:** but as bros

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **Yep.

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **Anyway gotta go.

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **See you Lee.

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **yep

 ** **SAM (YOU)** :** l8r sam

 ** **SAM (YOU)** :** <3

 **BRO:** <3 no homo tho

 ** **SAM (YOU)** : **got it

* * *

      “Alex, can we talk a moment?” Washington asked, tapping Alex on the shoulder seconds before the bell rang for first period.

      “What is it, sir? I have French next and I’m already kind of fluent, so it’s not very important, but I don’t think Mister Genêt likes me very much ever since I refused to take his elective, and I don’t want to fail-”

      “Alex, I can write you a note; this is important.”

      “Is this going to be like your last ‘important announcement’? Who else is leaving?”

      “No, it’s something else. You know the original composition category in RevFest?”

      “…Yes?” Alex ducked into a doorway to avoid the onslaught of students running through the halls in an attempt not to be late.

      “I entered in your name. Now, I know you might not want it, but the submissions were due today and, with everything going on, it must have slipped my mind. I know you’ve been working with some of the other band members, but RevFest is only a few weeks away; I wasn’t sure if it would be enough time. If you’re not ready, I can always tell them to pull you out -”

      “Sir, which composition do you want me to enter?”

      Washington blinked before looking down at the thick binder filled with sheet music that Hamilton had pulled out of his backpack.

      “…The limit for songs is six minutes,” Washington responded slowly, staring at the papers. “Do you… always carry that in your bag?”

      “I like to be prepared, sir.”

      Washington sighed. “I suppose I’ll go write that note to Genêt.”

* * *

 

       _This is my last day as a classical musician._

The thought struck Aaron in the middle of tuning, and he glanced around the orchestra room, feeling somewhat disappointed but ultimately relieved that Mister Van Buren had given him permission to spend the last three weeks of rehearsal with the jazz band.

      The only person here he actually tolerated was Maria, and she had started hanging out with Angelica Schuyler constantly for some reason, so he’d still see plenty of her.

      The rest of them he could take or leave or, when it came to Thomas Jefferson, he could very much _take_ the other boy; take him and throw him into the dumpster behind the library, where he belonged.

      “So….” Jefferson purred as he leaned forward on his elbows, sounding entirely too much like a gossiping tween, “who is everyone going to prom with?”

      “I’m going with Lee!” Seabury exclaimed, sounding uncharacteristically proud of himself. He seemed to realize what he had just said and quickly added, “But - but as bros.”

      “Yeah,” Lee interjected, trying to look masculine even as he subconsciously scooted closer to Seabury. “Bros.”

      Burr pressed the bow down hard as he tugged it across his cello, letting out an earsplitting screech as the strings screamed in protest. The whole room winced and covered their ears. “Oh my god, will you two shut up already?” Burr growled. “Can’t you just admit you’re _dating?”_

      “Wait, wait, wait…” Jefferson sat up, grinning. “You can go to prom as bros? Hey, Maddie! Wanna go to prom with me? Bro prom? Brom?”

      Madison choked in the middle of taking a drink from his water bottle and sputtered for a moment before replying, “Uh- well, um, wait, hold on - wait, **_what_** _?!”_

      Burr let out a low moan, clutching his bow. _I fucking hate this school._ His patience had truly and officially _run out_. It was probably off somewhere doing fucking figure eights in the sky like a majestic eagle. His last fuck had flown out the window and into the sunny fields, free at last.

      “So, have you asked anyone, Burr?” Maria asked, shifting away from him even as she spoke, as if the waves of exhaustion and frustration that radiated off him were as powerful as UV rays.

      “Certainly not a short-tempered, arrogant, son of a whore, orphan, immigrant, **_bastard_ ** named Alexander Hamilton - who I am _not_ in love with!” Burr snapped, entirely too loudly, brandishing his bow and whacking an unsuspecting James Reynolds in the face as the boy tried to make his way to the piano.

      The entire room was staring at him, including, to Burr’s intense mortification, Mister van Buren, who, it seemed, had finally decided to show up and was standing in the doorway, looking entirely too fed up with all this teen angst bullshit.

      “That is… exactly what someone who wanted to take Hamilton to prom would say,” Maria said, trying and failing to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up in a bemused smirk.

       _“You know_ **_nothing_** _!”_ Burr hissed, resisting the overwhelming urge to ask Maria what it was like to have kissed Hamilton on the mouth.

      Maria nonchalantly flipped through her sheet music. “Sure, Burr.”

      _“That’s not funny!”_

      “Who are you going with, Maria?” Jefferson asked, seemingly oblivious both to Madison’s continued choking and Burr’s outburst. Maria turned up her nose and let her eyelids fall, giving her an unbothered and sophisticated air, before she replied delicately,

      “None of your beeswax.”

      “Can we get back to Wagner?” James Monroe said irritably.

      “Please?” Madison added before dissolving into another coughing fit.

      Burr sank as low as he could into his chair. _Just fifty-five minutes, and then you’re done forever._

* * *

 

**SARAH**

**SARAH:** Um aaron

 **SARAH:** Aaron answer me

 **SARAH:** Little bro?

 **SARAH:** Homeslice

 **SARAH:** My nicknames are gonna become meaner if you don’t answer

 **SARAH:** Moldy slice of bread

 **SARAH:** Hot cereal

 **SARAH:** Slightly uneven table

 **SARAH:** Lost umbrella

 **BURR (YOU):** what is it

 **SARAH:** He rises

 **SARAH:** A letter came for you

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **what? y can’t the post office ever manage to ship stuff to my dorm?

 **SARAH:** Idk

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **well whos it from???

 **SARAH:** Uh

 **SARAH:** Princeton University

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **WHAT

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **DID YOU OPEN IT??????

 **SARAH:** Uh no

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **OPEN IT

 **SARAH:** Okay okay

 **SARAH:** It’s pretty heavy ;)

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* * *

      James was possibly having the worst day of his life. _Thomas_ had asked _him_ to _prom_ , sure, but...

_As bros._

      Was that a thing? Going to prom as bros?! There was no way ‘brom’ was _really_ a thing, right?

_Right?_

      James groaned and sank to the floor in the center of a small practice room on the lower floor of the conservatory. This emotional anguish combined with (another) cold had prevented him from even considering using the practice room to actually _practice._ At least the carpeting felt pleasantly soft against his face. He wondered what kind of fabric it was - probably some really nice polyester blend, if he had to guess.

      The door creaked open, and James peered up from his position on the floor to see the towering figure of Hercules Mulligan standing in the doorway.

      “Are you using this room? I kind of need the drum set,” Mulligan asked, looking down at James, who scrambled to get off the floor and pretend he _wasn’t_ wallowing in an a pit of endless despair and romantic frustration.

      Mulligan raised an eyebrow as Madison hurried towards the door, stifling a cough. “Dude, you okay?”

      “I’m fine! Why would you think I’m not okay!” James snapped, nearly dropping his backpack.

      “Uh, you were lying face-down on the floor and moaning,” Mulligan said, sitting down on the stool behind the drum set, which seemed small in comparison to his height. “Come on, what’s wrong?”

      “Why do you care?”

      “It’s called basic human decency, man. You constantly look like you’re on the verge of crying.”

      “I’m sick.”

      “Sure you are. What's the issue?”

      James sighed and flopped down in a chair by the doorway. “It’s about prom. I - “

      “Can’t work up the courage to ask Jefferson out?” Mulligan asked, nodding sagely. “I don't know what you see in the guy, but that's gotta suck.”

      “What - no! It’s nothing like that! Why would I want to ask him out!”

      Mulligan raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Dude, you are _painfully_ obvious in your pining. Whenever Jefferson’s not looking you stare at him like a... mournful anchovy.”

      “It’s not obvious! And I already said, I’m not interested in him - he asked _me_ to prom!”

      “If Jefferson already asked you out, what’s the problem?” Mulligan asked, ignoring James’s feeble denial.

      “...He called it ‘brom.’ Bro Prom,” James choked out.

      Mulligan inhaled sharply. “Ouch.”

      James sighed again and rubbed his face. “He’ll never notice me.”

      “Hey, don’t worry about it man.” Mulligan stood up and gave James a sympathetic pat on the back, a gesture that would have been a lot nicer if Mulligan didn’t have the strength of several mountain trolls. “Just tell him how you feel, and it’ll work itself out.”

      “Thanks for giving the most cliché advice in the book.”

      Mulligan raised his hands defensively. “But the book is right! I mean, it worked for me and Laf!”

      “So you two _are_ dating each other?”

      “What are you talking about?”

      James gaped. “You literally just admitted to dating them.”

      Mulligan shook his head, smiling slightly. “I think you're projecting your feelings onto me. I just said that being open with your feelings is the most important part of a successful relationship.”

      “See - relationship!”

      “Yeah, any kind of relationship - platonic, romantic, whatever,” Mulligan replied, in a manner that could _almost_ be taken as sincere. “Good luck in your romantic endeavors, little man,” he said, giving James another final pat. “Now, are you using this room or not?”

      James stood up and snatched his backpack off the floor. “I’m not, and please don’t call me ‘little man.’”

* * *

 

**DOUCHEBAG**

**ANGELICAAAA (YOU):** What is maria’s favorite broadway musical?

 **DOUCHEBAG:** who is this???

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **Unimportant there’s a million things i haven’t done

 **DOUCHEBAG:** what

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **It’s angelica schuyler

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **But that’s beside the point

 **DOUCHEBAG:** oh

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **Come on!! Answer the question, the clock is ticking!!

 **DOUCHEBAG:** how the hell should i know?? i nvr paid attention to that kind of stuff

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **God how are you literally the worst boyfriend ever

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **Why did maria ever agree to date you

 **DOUCHEBAG:** im actually still confused on tht myself

 **DOUCHEBAG:** as for ur original question idk

 **DOUCHEBAG:** i think she posted something about west side story on instagram once?? i have no clue

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **Thanks anyway

 **DOUCHEBAG:** what is this for???

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **It’s none of your business

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **But i kinda want to rub it in so...

* * *

       Two days before RevFest and a little over two weeks before prom, the Union Heights cafeteria was treated to a spectacle it did not often enjoy: Abigail Smith striding through the doorway, flanked by Mercy Warren and the rest of the newspaper staff, looking as if she owned the place.

      “I don’t usually see you outside the club room,” John Adams said, sounding pleasantly surprised as his girlfriend sat down beside him.

      “The last issue of the _Union Heights Chronicle_ is hot off the presses,” Mercy declared, punctuating the statement by stabbing the air with her french fry. “Thomas should be along any minute with them.”

      “This one’s unfortunately not as scandalous as some of the previous issues,” Abigail added with a sigh. “Our readership was at an all-time high this year, you know.”

      “I know,” John replied affectionately, squeezing Abigail’s hand. She grumbled but squeezed back, long-fingered brown hand a contrast to John’s wide olive-toned one.

      “There he is,” Phillis Wheatley, a freshman staff writer with a flair for the poetic, announced, and everyone at the table looked in the direction of the doorway, through which Thomas Paine was racing, a stack of still-warm newspapers piled in his arms. There was a streak of printer ink on his aristocratic nose, and Thomas’ whole body, including his dark brown eyes, burned with nervous energy.

      “Attention everyone!” He shouted, voice wavering even in its intensity, and the whole lunchroom fell silent, including the jazz kids in the corner, who abandoned what had sounded like a heated debate to listen. “This is a very important final issue,” Thomas continued, holding up a copy in one shaking hand. “This is the product of four years of blood, sweat, and tears, which this newspaper staff has been pouring into this project during our time here, so I would like to present the first copy to our incredible editor, Abigail Smith!”

      There was scattered applause, during which Abigail graciously accepted the paper. She scanned the front page, probably looking for typos, and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Thomas,” she hissed, glancing up at the boy with a stern expression and the hint of a smile she wasn’t quite able to keep off her face.

      “Let me have one! _Mach schnell!_ ” Friedrich von Steuben shouted from the table in the corner, and Thomas graciously obliged him. Soon the papers were being passed out to the entire cafeteria, which soon came alive with murmurs and nervous giggles as people began glancing towards the table where Abigail, John, and Mercy were seated.

      “Don’t I get one?” Mercy asked teasingly.

      “Of course,” Thomas replied. “I saved the last one for you.”

      She tossed her long dark braid over her shoulder, took the paper from his trembling hands with a confused expression, and adjusted her glasses before peering down at the headline:

_MERCY OTIS WARREN - WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME?_

      “Oh my God, _Thomas!_ There’s a whole _article_?”

      “I interviewed people,” Thomas blurted, reaching up to scratch the back of his head nervously, “and sent out a survey. The student body seems to think we’re compatible.”

      Mercy just shook her head, incredulous. “You are, without a doubt, the biggest dork I have ever met.”

      “Am I a dork with a prom date?” Thomas asked, smiling anxiously.

      “Of course, you dope!” Mercy exclaimed, throwing the newspaper to the table so she could stand and fling her arms around Thomas’s neck. A resounding cheer went up from the cafeteria, with Abigail merely rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Her own promposal proved, in the end, to be incredibly anti-climactic.

      “We’re going to prom together,” she said, barely glancing at John, between bites of her sandwich.

      The bespectacled boy, to absolutely nobody’s surprise, blushed, nodded, and went on eating. His bandmates in the corner whooped and shouted encouragement; even Hamilton offered the baritone player a thumbs-up.

      “At least _those_ idiots have found love,” Angelica sighed, taking a dejected bite of her salad. She seemed to have lost her appetite.

      “Come on, sis,” Eliza said, elbowing her in the ribs. “You can do this.”

      “Do what?” Peggy asked, leaning in excitedly. Their adventure into espionage with Mulligan had given her a taste for gossip that they couldn’t seem to shake.

      Eliza simply beamed, ignoring Angelica’s growing pallor. “Your sister is making her Broadway debut.”

* * *

**SET MY HEART AFLAME**

****ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** :** Meet me in the theater after school

 **SET MY HEART AFLAME:** Why?

 ** **ANGELICAAAA (YOU)** : **You’ll see.

* * *

      Maria pushed open the door to the black box theater and had to squint as she found herself in near gloom. The stage and audience seats were empty, the former illuminated by a single spotlight, as yet unoccupied. Maria could also make out the shape of a piano, though there was no one behind it.

     “Hello? Angelica?” She ventured, voice echoing in the wide theater.

     Something touched her shoulder, and Maria turned around quickly, coming face to face with a curious looking Eliza Schuyler, who was dressed in a simple black shirt and pants.

     “Eliza? Why-” Maria began, wondering briefly if she had been set up. _Angelica wouldn’t do that._ “Is this about-”

     “Come take your seat,” Eliza said, smoothly interrupting her apology. “Right this way.”

     Maria allowed the other girl to manhandle her into a red-backed seat in the front row. “What is this?” She asked once she was settled, but Eliza simply winked before climbing on stage and taking her place behind the piano.

    Maria searched the darkened stage, wondering what could possibly be going on, and then someone stepped into the spotlight - Angelica Schuyler, looking terrified but but beautiful as always. She was resplendent in a gown of rosy pink, which set off the warm tones of her skin and the red in her cheeks as she blushed under the stage lights. She glanced down at the audience, and Maria never thought she would ever see Angelica Schuyler look _shy,_ but there she was.

     Eliza spread her hands over the piano keys with a flourish, and then she began to play.

     Angelica took a deep breath. “ _Maria… the most beautiful sound I ever heard,_ ” her voice trembled. “ _Maria, Maria, Maria..._ ”

     Maria eyes widened when she finally realized what was happening. The only thoughts she could salvage from the panicked excitement rapidly overtaking her were,

1.  _ _That’s not how it’s pronounced in the actual song__

 __2._ _ _Holy shit I’m being serenaded by Angelica Schuyler_

_3\. What the fuck, Angelica is really good at singing?_

      _“All the beautiful sounds of the world in a single word!”_ Angelica stepped towards the front of the stage and held out a hand, smile losing all apprehension and filling with joy.

      Maria suddenly found herself being pulled onto the stage and held onto Angelica’s hand like it was her lifeline.

       _“Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria,_ ** _Maria_** _!_ _I just met a girl named Maria, and suddenly that name will never be the same to me..._ ” Angelica’s voice reached a steady plateau, and she took Maria’s other hand in her own, “ _Maria,”_ Angelica stammered her way through the next line, “ _I just k-kissed a girl named Maria, and - suddenly I found how wonderful a sound can be!”_ She finished, regaining her confidence.

      _Oh god, she’s beautiful._ Angelica glimmered under the stage light, something otherworldly, like candlelight, like a dream Maria couldn’t quite place.

      _“Maria, say it loud and there’s music playing... say it soft and it’s almost like praying, Maria! I’ll never stop saying Maria! Maria! Maria! Maria... Say it loud and there’s music playing, say it soft and it’s almost like praying, Maria... I’ll never stop saying, Maria..._ ”

     Maria leaned in close and sang, _“The most beautiful sound I ever heard...”_ The harmonies swam together, intertwining and making a new melody. Angelica’s hand touched her cheek, gentle as a feather, but Maria could still feel her heart beating at the speed of sound, the theater and the music around her blurring into something unrecognizable, leaving only Angelica’s face untouched at the center of the storm.

      Their lips touched.

      _“Maria_...”

     The kiss felt like forever but ended too soon, and Maria was still in a daze. She stared up into Angelica’s dark brown eyes _(look into your eyes and the sky’s the limit)_ and smiled as Eliza clapped politely in the wings. _I will never be the same._

     “Maria, will you go-” Angelica began, enraptured in the same bliss as Maria.

     “Go sis!” Came a cry from the balcony, where Peggy Schuyler was standing, phone poised in their hands. Eliza added her own hoots of approval. “Get it!”

     Angelica turned away, her grip on Maria’s hand tightening. “Guys - wait, Peggy, is that a _camera?!_ I told you not to-”

     Peggy blanched, shoving the camera into their bag and dashing for the exit. Angelica bolted for the edge of the stage, but Maria grabbed her wrist. “Wait!”

     Angelica looked back at her and deflated. “Fine, but Peggy is _dead_ next time I see them.”

     “What were you going to ask?” Maria inquired, sheepish, though she was pretty sure she had an idea.

      Angelica bit her lip, far less confident than she had been a minute ago. “Will... will you to prom with me?”

      _Never thought I’d be the person to make Angelica Schuyler nervous,_ Maria thought, incredulous, a dopey grin spreading across her face. “Of course I will!” She exclaimed, kissing Angelica again and again until the other girl was covered in lipstick marks..

     Angelica gave a deep sigh of relief between kisses. “Oh thank _god_ , I was so nervous that you’d...” She trailed off. “Was my singing okay?”

     “It was incredible! I didn’t know you could sing! And how did you know my favorite song-”

     “Well, I asked around about your favorite musical, and when I looked up the songs I saw the title, so I figured - ”

     Maria blushed. “Well, _West Side Story_ is kind of racist, but it _was_ the first musical I listened to.”

     “Hey, I guess we’ve got that in common now,” Angelica added, beaming.

     “Wait, you’ve only listened to _West Side Story?_ Okay, we’re going to my house and listening to all of my favorite musicals right now, and then we’re picking out prom dresses.”

     Eliza pushed herself off the piano bench and gathered her music, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll leave you to it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought this chapter was cheesy (and it was - i love cheese, it's why i could never go vegan), you are in for a whole new level of cheese
> 
> i hope you all brought your bread and fondue forks, folks, because it only gets worse from here


	11. No Me Diga!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 11 a.k.a. how many historical references could we fit into one chapter?

**BATTLE OF THE BANDS (HAMILSQUAD 2.0, FIND A WAY TO STOP JEFFERSON)**

**SMALL TURTLE:** good luck NERDS

 **SMALL TURTLE:** haha man

 **SMALL TURTLE:** wish i could be there and all

 **SMALL TURTLE:** send me vids of burr stealing my thunder

 **NONSTOP!!! (YOU):** sorry you can’t be there

 **SMALL TURTLE:** it’s okay babe

 ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)** : **dear laurens

 ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)** :** cold in my professions, warm in my “friendships,”

 **BRAH BRAH:** u 2 r disgusting

 **BRAH BRAH:** y couldnt this end when u broke up??

* * *

 

✿ **ELIZA** ✿

✿ **ELIZA** ✿ **:** alex where are you?? the bus is leaving!!

 ** **NONSTOP!!! (YOU)** : **just stress vomiting don’t worry i’ll be there in five

✿ **ELIZA** ✿ **:** (˵•́~•̀˵) herc has snacks and water if you need that

* * *

 

      “RevFest, here we come!” Angelica shouted as the bus pulled out of the conservatory parking lot, generating a whoop of approval from the band. Alex managed a weak cheer - the nausea brought on by his anxiety was not helped by the rattlings of the road beneath them, and Aaron watched nervously as the smaller boy curled up in his seat, scanning his sheet music for perhaps the billionth time.

      “So,” Aaron asked, trying to distract Alex somehow. “Any plans for prom?” _Shit._ Why had he chosen that subject?

      “Huh?” Alex asked, looking up with unfocused eyes. “Oh. Just heading with the squad. I was gonna ask Eliza, but I kinda fucked that one up.” He got a wistful expression on his face and leaned his head back to look at Burr. “I had it all planned out, too,” he continued. “It was gonna be so adorable.”

      “What do you mean?” Aaron asked, deciding it couldn’t hurt to daydream. It was best, he had decided, to deal with his unfortunate feelings indirectly. Take the video of Hamilton he had on his phone, for example: he would be lying if he said he hadn’t watched it a dozen times already. There was something about hearing Hamilton truly and honestly apologetic that was just immensely satisfying to him, though the film didn’t compare to the real thing. That belonged to Burr alone, and he treasured the image of Alex’s face like it was something made of gold.

       _God, I am totally fucked._

“Well,” Alex explained, “I have this boombox that I got from a pawn shop like three years ago. I was gonna go stand outside her window and play that Peter Gabriel song ‘In Your Eyes’ like in the movie _Say Anything._ ”

      “That’s so cheesy,” Aaron chuckled.

      “I know,” Alex replied, grinning. “It was gonna be so fucking cute.”

      “That does sound really adorable, actually.”

       _“Mon petit agneau,_ ” Lafayette said, leaning over the back of the seat. “Von Steuben has a question about the B section for the Mingus piece. Could you assist him, _peut-être_?”

      “Shit,” Alex said, squeezing past Burr and into the aisle. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

      (Von Steuben, in actuality, was lying across his seat, alone, with a limited edition Pokemon Alpha Sapphire 3DS and frantically attempting to catch Latias using a truly frightening amount of ultra balls and a variety of German swears. He had no questions whatsoever about the Mingus piece.)

      Aaron watched Alex go with a sigh, letting his gaze linger for a moment before he felt two sets of eyes on him, and he turned to see Lafayette and Mulligan staring at him from the next seat, wide grins plastered on their faces

      “Um, hi?”

      “We know,” Lafayette whispered conspiratorially .

      “What’s this about?” Aaron asked, feeling a sharp stab of unease as Lafayette’s grin widened.

      “You are... uniquely situated by virtue of your position,” Lafayette began with what seemed like practiced poise; they had clearly been preparing for this moment.

      “Though virtue is not a word I’d apply to this situation,” Mulligan added, unhelpfully.

      “ _Monsieur_ Burr embezzling his way into our dear Hamilton’s _heart_ -” Lafayette exclaimed with mock worry, placing their hand delicately above their heart like a offended movie damsel from the 60s.

      “I can almost see the headline,” Mulligan schemed, “your reputation is _ruined_.”

       _The newspaper club already published their last article,_ Aaron almost grumbled, but the the two musicians were leaning closer, Lafayette nearly falling over the top of the seat and into Aaron’s lap.

      Burr instinctively pulled you back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about! I’m not - you can’t prove _anything_!”

       _Fuck, wrong wording._ Aaron’s face burned red, and Lafayette and Mulligan exchanged a gleeful smirk.

      “Unless...” Mulligan muttered.

      “ _Cher_ Burr, if you wish to win Alex’s heart, there are several things you need to know,” Lafayette said, giving Aaron a sympathetic smile and placing their hand on his shoulder.

        Their grip tightened, sharp manicured nails digging into Burr. “Do. Not. Hurt. Him. Ever. Again,” the Marquis whispered. “If you do, I will know. I have, how you say, _connections,_ with very powerful people. _”_ It was a melodramatic line, and they said it playfully, but their voice had a dangerous edge to it, as if Lafayette was a newly-sharpened knife.

      A newly-sharpened knife with a killer outfit and a French accent.

      Aaron would later recount that he had never truly felt fear before that moment.

      Lafayette flashed him another grin, like they hadn’t just threatened to kill Aaron a few seconds prior, patting him on the shoulder. _“Ça va?”_

       _“Oui -_ I mean, yeah. Got it. Crystal clear. _Capiche,"_  Aaron replied, his voice faint.

      “Well, that’s all sorted, thank God.” Alex came striding back up the aisle and flopped down in his seat before pulling up his phone. Lafayette glanced casually at the screen and asked,

      “Why are you looking at Amazon?”

      “I’m seeing if they sell turtle snuggies. I wanted to get one for Laurens as a... get-well present. What do you think, Burr?”

      Aaron glanced at the screen, but his mind was too muddled to form an opinion. “Yeah,” he croaked, painfully aware of Lafayette’s eyes boring into him. “Sounds great.”

* * *

 

      “We’re in the belly of the beast,” Angelica observed, gazing up at the arched ceiling of the Empire High School gym, where dozens of other bands had already dumped their cases before heading off to private practice rooms to prepare.

      “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a school more obviously designed for rich white kids,” Alex quipped. “Do you think all that marble in the lobby was genuine?”

      “Now, Alex,” Washington scolded, accepting a schedule from a bored-looking volunteer. “Let’s be respectful.”

      “When they start doing the same for my existence,” Alex muttered spitefully, glaring at schedule like it was the one responsible for every single American problem.

      “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Union Heights jazz band. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

      Angelica turned at the sound of the familiar voice, and her heart sank. _Oh, fuck no._

Standing at the gym entrance, violin case slung over his shoulder, looking majestic in his shiny new Empire High uniform, was none other than the Antichrist himself.

      “G-George?” Alex sputtered, blinking like he wanted to wake himself up from a nightmare. “What are you doing here?”

      The tall, aristocratic boy grinned slyly and made his way across the room. “I go here now. I’m finding that this particular learning environment is more suited to my individual needs.”

      “Oh, so I see your dad’s started _giving_ bribes instead of accepting them,” Alex spat, ignoring Washington’s hand on his shoulder, which was gently steering him towards the exit.

      George’s smile wavered but didn’t fall. “I thought it might be nice to put our differences aside, but I can see I was mistaken. A shame really, now that we’re competing with each other.”

      “Wait, what?” Alex asked, finally wrenching himself out of Washington’s grasp. The band instructor had let his hand go slack when he saw the tall, stocky man walking through the, followed by a dozen or so boys in Empire High uniform who were lugging their instrument cases behind them.

      “Director Cornwallis,” Washington said brightly, extending a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

      The tall, dour man accepted the handshake with palpable formality, but he did not return the compliment.

      “Violin isn’t a jazz instrument,” Alex hissed at George, who had puffed up like a peacock in the presence of his bandmates.

      “It is now,” the other boy replied, and Angelica had to restrain herself from roundhouse-kicking the obnoxious little twerp right in his infuriatingly white teeth.

      “Howie! _Mon ami,_ it has been an age!” Lafayette called, flinging their arms around a sharp-nosed boy with a saxophone case slung over his right shoulder in what had to be the most disturbing example of psychological warfare Angelica had ever seen.

      “It’s _Howe,"_  the boy replied irritably as he struggled to free himself from Lafayette’s suffocating embrace. “Also, we’re not friends.”

      “You wound me, Howie,” Laf replied before turning their attention to the rest of the Empire High Jazz Band. “Benedict! A pity you could not have stayed at Union Heights,” they exclaimed, noticing the small Puerto Rican trombonist trying and failing to hide in the back of the group. “And who is this?” The Marquis continued, squinting at a freshman boy, who was clutching a pair of drumsticks in one hand.

      The freshman looked Lafayette up and down before asking with a sneer, “Are you a boy or a girl?”

      Lafayette seemed unfazed. “I am French,” they replied loftily, tossing their ponytail with an effortless flourish, though the smile had slipped from their face. Angelica added the drummer to her mental hit list.

      “Settle down, little bro,” Howe said, placing a hand on the freshman’s shoulder.

      “Richard is right, William,” Director Cornwallis said dryly. “We wouldn’t want to provoke a lawsuit.”

      Washington forced a hearty laugh, but the other man didn’t seem to have intended it as a joke.

      “Let’s go, boys,” he said, beckoning the band to follow him. “The Kenny G song still needs tweaking, and we’re on in forty-five minutes!”

      “They’re playing Kenny G!” Alex blurted, incensed. “Of course they would play some watered down white guy’s version of jazz, of course they would!”

      “Actually, I think Kenny G is Jewish,” Peggy murmured, but no one heard them over Alex’s renewed shouting. Angelica heaved a sigh and buried her face in her hands. This was going to be a very long day.

* * *

 

      Aaron Burr had never personally witnessed a train wreck, but he figured that, after watching the Union Heights Jazz Band warm up backstage, he had a pretty good idea of what one looked like. Alex had fumbled a note in the Ellington piece, which was so out of the ordinary that the trombones missed their entrance and the tempo changed inexplicably, forcing them to stop and begin again, much to Washington’s displeasure.

      “Where’s all of your energy?” He asked once they had moved on the ‘Fables of Faubus.’ “This song is about racism. You’re supposed to be playing with _passion_.”

      Aaron knew all about passion, but whenever he stood up to play one of his clean, technically perfect solos, the instructor just shook his head.

      “This isn’t classical, Aaron,” he urged. “Don’t play so safe.”

       _Do you even **know** what you’re asking? _ Burr thought irritably before playing another string of notes, all of which fit perfectly into the chord progression.

     There was a knock on the door, and Aaron turned to see a lanky senior with a nametag lingering in the hallway. “Thermidor High is just finishing up,” the volunteer said. “You guys are on deck.”

      “Alright everyone,” Washington said, sighing and closing his folder. “Let’s all go support the combo.”

      “No!” Alex exclaimed. “You guys should keep practicing! Every minute counts.”

      “We’ve been practicing these charts all year,” Washington said, and it suddenly struck Aaron how _old_ the man looked, how tired. “This is as good as we’re ever going to get.”

      “But, sir-” Alex marched towards the instructor, but Washington silenced him with a firm pat on the back, knocking the boy’s breath away.

      “Get out on that stage and give ‘em hell, son,” Washington said.

      Alex opened his mouth to reply but, after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.

      Aaron, Alex, Herc, Laf, Angelica, and Eliza made their way down the corridor as the musicians from Thermidor High carried their instruments offstage. Laf knew a few of them, and Aaron heard a few whispers of encouragement, all in French, as they passed by. And then there were out on stage, an auditorium full of blinking white eyes staring up at them, and Aaron was walking stiffly towards the piano - he played keyboard for combo - and trying to convince himself that no, he, the unshakable Aaron Burr, did _not_ get stage fright. Hamilton was busy dragging the microphones into place and trying to conceal the tremors in his hands, while Herc took his place behind the drums and Angelica, Eliza, and Laf laid out sheet music. After a few tense moments, Alex nodded to the volunteer at the podium, who glanced down at his notes before announcing,

      “Up next is the Union Heights Select Combo, who will be performing ‘Short Story’ by Kenny Dorham as well as an original composition entitled ‘Hurricane’ by eleventh grader Alexander Hamilton.”

      Alex waited for the volunteer to leave the stage and then glanced at Aaron, who nodded. The other boy took a deep breath, raised the trumpet to his lips, and counted off, “One, two, one, two, three, four!”

      It was strange - Aaron had spent the entire year ensconced in Beethoven and Mozart, barely glancing at so much as a blues scale, and yet, in an odd way, it felt as if he had never left. The first song flowed exactly the same way it had in all their rehearsals - perfectly executed, off without a hitch, and yet…

      Burr could feel that there was something lackluster in their performance. They sounded fine, good actually, but whatever spark they’d spent the last few weeks developing just wasn’t there. When Alex soloed, he followed a dozen different lines, each interesting in its own right, but he never settled on one to tie the whole thing together, and it showed. From where Aaron was sitting, he could see out over the entire audience, including the judges’ table. The three judges occasionally nodded or jotted something down in their notes, but their disinterest was clear. One of them even stifled a yawn at one point, and Aaron slammed the keys purposefully loud when Alex’s solo ended, watching with satisfaction as the man jerked awake.

      The applause ranged from polite to somewhat impressed when the song came to a close, which Aaron knew wasn’t good enough, and if Alex’s expression was anything to go by, the other boy knew it too. The trumpeter meekly placed his instrument down and walked up to the vocal mic at center stage. Aaron swallowed the sudden lump in his throat; whenever they had rehearsed, he had always been facing the wall, focused on the keys under his hands, but from this new vantage point he could see Alex’s worried profile in perfect detail, see the rise and fall of his throat as he swallowed. If it had just been the two of them, Burr was sure he would have walked right across the stage and folded the other boy into his arms, but Alex was counting off and the song was starting, and Burr tore his eyes from the boy at the microphone and plunged in.

      “Hurricane” was, without a doubt, the most technically challenging song Aaron had ever played. It was just like Alex to take a key that would make any sane musician run screaming from the room and then layer it with incidentals and progressions so complicated that Aaron’s head had spun the first time he saw the sheet music. But that was fine. Aaron liked a challenge. He especially liked challenges wrapped up in little 5”7 packages and tied with black ribbons, and he liked challenges that _sang_ like angels that had been dropped from heaven.

      The lyrics, in contrast to the song, were tender and plain. Alex’s rough voice suited them nicely as he sang into the microphone, his words booming across the auditorium with a kind of gentle intensity.

       _“In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet, for just a moment, a yellow sky.”_

Aaron didn’t need to look at the judges to know that they were listening with rapt attention. Alex’s music did that to a person; if Aaron hadn’t been so focused on his own part, he felt sure he would have been entranced. But he’d heard this story before.

* * *

 

      It had happened on a day back in sophomore year, the year he had first met Alex, when it had been raining, a good old April storm, and Alex had barely said a word all day. This in and of itself was unusual, but Aaron had chalked it up to stress or exhaustion and hadn’t really thought much of it until the two of them had been walking to the conservatory from Aaron’s history class, which Alex, being the overachiever he was, shared. They were both crowded under the same umbrella, and Alex finally seemed to be getting his energy back, seeing as he was ranting about the mischaracterization of one historical event or another when there was suddenly a flash of light, nearly atomic in its brightness, followed by a clap of resounding thunder that made the earth around them tremble.

      Alex had let out a sob mid-sentence and folded at the knees, clapping his hands over his ears as he squeezed his eyes shut. Aaron, at a loss for what to do, simply stood there, dumbfounded in the rain. _Do I ask if he’s okay? God, of course he’s not okay._

      “Um,” he had started, crouching down next to Alex, an awkward task with the umbrella, “do you think you can stand up?”

      Alex’s head had jerked up like a frightened animal, and though his eyes couldn’t seem to focus on Aaron’s face, he nodded. Aaron hooked an arm around the other boy’s waist and pulled him to his feet.

      “Let’s get you inside, okay?” He said, and when Alex gave no response, he took a cautious step forward, waiting for the other boy’s legs to get the memo and start moving, which they did, albeit slowly, but by that point Aaron had given up on the idea of getting to jazz band on time or at all, and he walked patiently the rest of the way to the conservatory, letting Alex slow down when he needed to, shifting the umbrella so that the rain fell freely on his own back but left Alex dry.

      When they finally reached the conservatory, class had already been in session for fifteen minutes. Aaron decided he might as well play hooky, just this once. He could bullshit an excuse to Washington later; Hamilton needed him _now_. He guided the other boy to a leather seat in the corner of the lobby and carefully sat down on the bench beside him, scrutinizing his face for some sign of movement or recognition, but he only saw a curious blankness, deeply disturbing on a person as expressive as Alexander. There were no tears on his face, but his pupils were blown and dark, and tension seemed to hum in every part of his body. Aaron didn’t know what to say, and he suspected that Alex, despite everything, didn’t want to be comforted, so instead he did what he did best. He waited.

      And waited. And waited.

      It took another fifteen minutes, but in the lobby the sound of the rain and thunder outside was muted to a dull roar, and Aaron thought it sounded like blood rushing in his ears, a familiar, organic hum, a mother’s heartbeat maybe, comforting and known. It seemed to do the trick; ever so slowly, Alex’s breathing had evened, his muscles relaxed, and he swallowed but didn’t look at Aaron. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

      “Don’t mention it,” Aaron replied quietly.

      They had waited in silence for another five minutes, and then Alex began to speak, soft and tentative, not at all as he usually did. The whole story had come out in a rush - _I was seventeen - I wrote my way out of hell - they passed a plate around - she was holding me - I couldn’t seem to die - I couldn’t seem to - I couldn’t seem - I couldn’t - I tried to_

 _I picked up a pen,_ **I wrote my own deliverance -**

      They never talked about it again after that.

* * *

 

_“This is the eye of the hurricane,”_ Alex sang, and whatever apprehension he had been holding had disappeared, and Aaron felt like his fingers were dancing across the keyboard.

      All of a sudden the drums stopped, the bass went silent, the horn blew one final wavering note - all the complicated rhythms and flurries of impossible notes disappeared, leaving just a simple blues progression, ingenious in its bewitching simplicity, just the piano and guitar left behind. A shocking absence of sound. The eye of the storm.

      And then it was over.

      “Alex!” Aaron called as they hurried off stage, struggling to make himself heard over the tumultuous applause.

      “Burr,” Angelica said, catching him above the elbow. “Washington wants us to watch the other combos.”

      “What? Why?” Aaron asked, incredulous. Sure enough, the Empire High combo was already pushing past them and onto the stage. Angelica just shrugged.

      “He wants us to be good sports.”

      Aaron stood there for a moment, unblinking. “Fuck that,” he said finally. “Fuck Empire High, and fuck the Pillsbury Doughboy. Where’s Alex?”

      Angelica seemed taken aback by his blunt response, but she jerked her thumb over her shoulder and replied, “I think he went back to the practice room. He probably- hey! Where are you going?”

      Aaron didn’t reply; he was racing down the hallway, nearly colliding with a startled King George. He began to apologize, thought better of it, and continued on his way. When he got to the practice room, the door was closed, but he could hear murmuring and occasional shouting on the other side, as if the other boy was locked in a furious conversation with himself.

      He knocked three times - Bum. Bum. Bum. “Alexander?”

      There was no response, only increased murmuring and what sounding like a head being beat against a wall.

      Bum. _Bum._ **_Bum._ ** _“Alexander.”_

The pounding stopped, and, after a moment of silence, a hesitant voice said, “Come in.”

      Burr pushed the door open, thoroughly unsurprised but still worried to see Hamilton sitting in the corner, folded nearly in half, looking so pale he was nearly translucent.

      “Alex, you sounded incredible out there,” Aaron blabbered, trying to maintain some semblance of cheer as he closed the door and rushed across the room. “There wasn’t a dry eye in the place, I swear, it was fantastic, it-”

      “That’s not good enough,” Alex snapped, and though his voice was barely above a whisper, it still stopped Aaron in his tracks. Hamilton’s face had contorted into a frozen mask of pain and frustration, but the rest of him was in constant movement - knees bouncing anxiously, hands moving in what could have been elaborate ritual signs as he rambled. “We can’t just be good, we have to be _the best,_ we have to be _perfect,_ don’t you see? If we don’t win, the conservatory will lose its funding, and _Washington’s leaving_ so we can’t let him down, and we can’t lose to _King fucking George,_ not again, because- because-”

At this point Alex’s words had become jumbled with gasps as he tried to breathe and talk at the same time. He looked about ready to break into a million pieces.

      “Hey, it’s okay, Alex,” Burr said firmly, grasping the other boy by the shoulders, but Alex wasn’t having any of it.

      “We can’t - I can’t -” he gasped, eyes rising to meet Aaron’s, wide, liquid, and frightened. “I don’t- I don’t know what to do - I -”

      Aaron just wanted to calm him down.

      Aaron just wanted to shut him up.

      Before he could really give a thought to what he was doing, he was leaning down and pressing his lips against Alexander’s. They were warm, dry, and yielded instinctively as Aaron reached to cup his chin, and Burr’s heart leapt for just a moment at the feeling, but after a moment he realized that Alex wasn’t kissing back. The other boy had gone slack. Aaron lingered another moment, chasing the sensation, hoping he might get something in return, but it was like kissing stone.

      So he pulled away, even though it felt like tearing out stitches.

      Alex was staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. For once in his life, he looked entirely speechless.

      Aaron bit his lip. “I’ve just made it worse, haven’t I?”

      Before Alex could respond, the door was opening, and Angelica was leaning inside, totally oblivious to what had just transpired. “Come on, lovebirds,” she said, nodding towards the hallway. “We’re on in five.”

* * *

 

 **LAURENS** **(´･ω･`)**

 **LAURENS** **(´･ω･`)** **:** yo how’s the competition going??

 **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU):** well, um

 ** **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU)** : **the Empire High combo was really good

 ** **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU)** : **like scary good

 ** **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU)** : **apparently jazz violin is actually a thing

 **LAURENS** **(´･ω･`)** **:** shit

* * *

 

      “Alright, everyone,” Washington whispered as the band checked their sheet music one last time and got ready to play. Aaron took a deep breath and looked out at the silent audience, even though it made his stomach twist into knots, because even that was better than the feeling of Alex’s eyes on his back.

      “Our next performance is from the Union Heights Big Band, directed by George Washington, featuring Alexander Hamilton on trumpet, Aaron Burr on clarinet, Hercules Mulligan on drums, Angelica Schuyler on bass, Elizabeth Schuyler on guitar, and Gilbert… I’m not even gonna try to pronounce that.”

      “Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette!”

      “... on French horn.”

      “Make me proud, kids,” Washington said with a smile before looking at Herc, who nodded and readied his drum sticks. Aaron took one last look at the stone-faced judges and brought the reed to his lips. “One, two, one, two, three, _four._ ”

    The Ellington piece started beautifully. Alex didn’t flub a single note; on the contrary, he sounded more assured than he had before, and when the solo section came along, he seemed to find his purpose immediately, weaving an intricate tapestry of notes that got him an ecstatic round of applause that nearly drowned out the beginning of Eliza’s solo. Aaron snuck a glance at the trumpeter as he emptied his spit valve, wondering how the other boy managed to play so freely and so exposed, barely paying any attention to the chord changes and instead pouring his heart into every line. It seemed somehow indecent to Burr, like he was listening in on something private.

      The piece came to a close, and the judges scribbled emphatically in their notes as the audience behind them roared. Washington wasted no time diving into the Count Basie piece, and before Burr had time to consider the difficulty of the music, John Adams was standing and launching into a powerful rendition of Jack Washington’s famous solo, the product of a conversation that had occurred two weeks before.

       _“We need to feature the seniors in the band,”_ Washington had said as they discussed the solo order for the songs.

       _“Have John do the written solo on ‘Somebody Stole My Gal,’”_ Alex had suggested, pointing to the short Korean boy in the front row, who blinked, confused by the sudden endorsement, before clutching his saxophone excitedly. _“He shits the bed whenever he has to improvise, but he sounds fine as long as he has someone telling him what to do.”_

John had blushed at that, and Washington had reminded the class for the millionth time that profanity would not be tolerated, but even he couldn’t argue with Hamilton’s assessment.

      The horn offensive continued during the solo section, during which Alex and Lafayette traded eight-bar phrases, slowly building intensity, which culminated in an explosive drum solo by Mulligan that woke up any judges that hadn’t been brought to life by the Ellington piece. By the time they started “Fables of Faubus,” Aaron had nearly forgotten that he would have to get up and solo in less than two minutes. It wasn’t until Alex had finished another one of his masterpieces and Angelica plunged into a soulful invention of her own that he found the rest of the band staring at him. Angelica plucked out her last few notes, and there were a few seconds of silence as Aaron got slowly to his feet.

      He filled the first few bars with complicated but ultimately unoriginal phrases, just trying to buy time. He saw Washington shake his head, a nearly imperceptible movement, but to Burr it felt like a slap in the face. Suddenly there was a rage burning inside him, anger that he hadn’t felt so strongly since his confrontation with Alex in the conservatory. No matter what he did, no matter how perfectly, it would _never_ be good enough. He would always be just one step behind. He would never be able to change the game the way Alex did, not unless he took a chance and stopped _caring_ so much.

      He racked his brain, trying to figure out what it was that gave Alex’s music the magic it had. What was Alex like? He was just like his music - impulsive, brash, never considering the consequences. He was nothing like Aaron, and yet, up until recently, Aaron had never considered himself the sort of person to throw the first punch, learn a year’s worth of music in three weeks, or kiss his best friend out of the blue, so maybe another change wouldn’t hurt. After all, what did he have to lose? _(the competition, his reputation, just trivial things)_

      He took a deep breath, forgot about the chord changes, raised the clarinet to his lips…

      … And immediately hit a wrong note.

      Of course.

       Because clearly one of his ancestors had pissed off a witch and doomed the entire Burr family line to eternal misfortune.

       But, wait a minute; that note didn’t belong to any chord within a mile of the song, so why were the judges nodding and scribbling notes? The more Burr thought about it, the note made the whole thing sound sort of… dissonant.

       Dissonant but _brave,_ and a hell of a lot more interesting than what he had been doing before. In fact, he could _resolve_ that note, no he could _encircle_ it, and suddenly he found himself caught up in a phrase that wasn’t perfect, but _it didn’t have to be._ None of it was perfect, but as he built upon that one phrase, listening as the chords changed beneath him and barely giving them any thought, he realized that he didn’t care. Maybe this was the point. Maybe this was the thing he had been missing.

       When he sat down, cushioned by resounding applause, he felt, for the first time, completely satisfied.

       After that it was all up to Angelica to bring them home, which she accomplished with a few polished but stunningly complicated lines on the base that paved the way for the last head out.

       And then it was over. Hours and hours of blood, sweat, and tears, and all they got was fifteen minutes. Burr desperately hoped that it had been enough.

* * *

 

     “Thank you all for participating in the twenty-seventh annual RevFest Jazz competition!” One of the female judges declared, eyeing the crowd of exhausted and excited high school students with a kind of practiced ambivalence. Eliza felt her stomach buzz with anticipation as she looked around the auditorium, stealing glances at Angelica, who sat next to her, fingers twitching.

     The judge (what was her name? Mrs. Reed? It was something like Esther Reed, right?) continued her speech on the importance of arts in education and the history of the competition, but Eliza was too nervous to even pay attention.

     As Mrs. Reed finished, a few teachers and polite students clapped out of societal obligation, but Eliza could tell everyone just wanted to get to prizes.

     “We’ll start with awards for the select combo awards!”

     Eliza’s hand tightened against the arm of her seat.

     “In third place: the Rider School of Ludington!”

     A cheer went up from the rear of the auditorium as the band instructor hurried up to the stage. Eliza glanced nervously to her right to see Alex gritting his teeth and slumping back into his chair.

     “In second place: Thermidor High, from Paris, Maine!”

     Angelica leaned over and whispered, “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird that there are like, twenty places named Paris in _America_ , right?” before turned around to face Lafayette, who shrugged and continued to clap.

     “In first place,”

      - Eliza could feel her heart thumping in her chest, tensing in anticipation -

       “Empire High, from Glen Ridge, New Jersey!”

     Eliza swore she could feel her heart fall to the bottom of her chest.

      _You’re shitting me._

     Alex’s head jerked up, hands curling into fists as the Empire High combo walked up the stage, led by a _very_ smug-looking King George, who accepting the plaque and held it up to be photographed, grinning at them the whole while

     “There is _literally_ no way in hell - _King George -_ no **fucking** way-” Alex hissed, turning towards Burr, but the other boy seemed to be conveniently interested in a spot on the ceiling because he made no move to reply. Alex turned back to the stage, muttering a stream of barely perceptible insults. Angelica nodded in agreement.

    Eliza had never _seriously_ considered homicide prior to this point, even when Alex had cheated on her, but the way King George smirked as he stared straight towards her made her mind turn towards garrotes and gasoline. The Empire High combo returned to their seats amid smatterings of polite applause.

     “Now, the soloist awards!” Mrs. Reed passed her microphone over to another judge, who shuffled his papers and cleared his throat.

     Eliza sunk deeper into her chair. Angelica looked over, smiling sympathetically before reaching to pat her gently on the back.

     “Our first award for outstanding solos goes to Richard Howe of Empire High!” The other judge (Eliza vaguely recalled his name being Chase?) announced. The Empire High band began clapping and hollering, looking smug in their mismatched khakis and polos. Eliza felt her stomach clench up, and in the corner of her eye, Mulligan scowled.

     “If someone else from Empire High gets one, I am going onstage and ripping out every single one of the judge’s throats,” Peggy muttered, glaring at the stage.

     “Our next award goes to Benedict Arnold, on drums from Empire High!”

     Eliza looked over at Peggy nervously. They _had_ taken to eyeing the kitchen knives and muttering after the Maria Lewis Incident, so perhaps violence wasn’t entirely out of the question.

     “Louis Marc - Antoine de Noailles? From Thermidor High!” Mr. Chase fumbled his way through the unfamiliar pronunciation, squinting at the paper.

       Cheers erupted from Thermidor High, Lafayette giving Louis a high five as he made his way to the stage.

      Eliza sunk deeper and deeper into her chair _. Why aren’t we_ **_winning_ ** _anything? My solo wasn’t_ **_terrible_ ** _, right? Everyone else’s were amazing! Why can’t they see -_

       “Our next award goes to Angelica Schuyler, from Union Heights!”

       Eliza nearly squealed as her head jerked up. She gave Angelica an enthusiastic thumbs-up as the eldest Schuyler sister made her way to the stage, where she turned to stare at the Empire High group before giving them the widest, most saccharine smile she could muster. George just snorted and looked away.

       “Button Gwinett, from the Continental Conservatory!”

        _Who the hell is Button Gwinett?_

       “Who the hell is Button Gwinett?” Peggy asked, leaning over. The auditorium seemed to share in this single sentiment.

        _Seriously, who the hell is Button Gwinett?_

       Eliza saw Hamilton’s leg bounce up and down. His hands twitched as he looked from the stage, to the judges, to - _Burr?_ Why was he suddenly all buddy-buddy with Burr? Whatever it was, Alexander’s twitchiness only seemed to grow with every passing minute.

     “Alexander Hamilton, from Union Heights!”

       Alex stood up with a start, eyes going wide like a deer in the highlights. He looked over at Eliza, astonished. _Oh god what do I do -_ Eliza smiled and gave a thumbs up. Alex relaxed slightly, coming out of his paralysis and making his way up to the stage. Eliza looked over to see Burr staring after him.

       “And our final outstanding soloist, Aaron Burr, also from Union Heights!”

       Burr’s mouth dropped open, bewildered.

       Alex grinned, bouncing on his heels as Burr made his way across the auditorium to join him. The judges smiled at the winners, who turned to face the cameras, and Alex was immortalized forever with his face half-turned, eyes gazing at Aaron.

      The judge cleared his throat and squinted down at the paper in front of him. “We will now be moving on to our special category, original composition. These pieces were judged on creativity, technical skill, and most of all, the passion of the composer in both the writing and the performing of the piece. I must say that the entries this year were of higher quality than anything I have seen during my time here.”

      A murmur went up from the audience, and Eliza shared a glance with Alex, who silently returned to his seat, suddenly sober.

      “In third place,” the judge began, “is Sybil Ludington, from the Rider School of Ludington, for her piece entitled ‘Star’!” A girl who looked like she belonged more on the track team than in the school band strode up the aisle.

“In second place is Meriwether Lewis from the Discovery School of Music for his composition entitled ‘Manifest Destiny’!” A boy high-fived another boy before racing up the to the stage.

      “And finally, for both his outstanding technical skill and his clear devotion to his work, we award first place for original composition, which carries with it a full scholarship to a summer music program at the Berklee College of Music, to Alexander Hamilton from the Union Heights High School, for his work ‘Hurricane’!”

* * *

 

      Alex sat, frozen, in his seat. Roaring applause filled the room (or maybe that was just the Union Heights kids?) He wasn’t crying, because Alexander Hamilton did not _cry,_ no matter what, he had other things to had to get the job _done,_ and _he was crying, wasn’t he?_

      For the first time in his life, Alex thought, maybe, _maybe_ he was going to be okay? _You’re gonna be fine._

      Alex sniffed, looking over at Eliza,  Angelica, Peggy, Mulligan, Lafayette, _and Burr -_ **Aaron,** who wore the first smile Alex felt like he had seen from him in _months._

      Washington clapped his hand on Alex’s shoulder as Alex wandered towards the podium, wide-eyed and furiously blinking back tears _they’re not tears, you don’t_ **_cry._ ** _Don’t waste your time on tears, you know how much good it’s done you before._

      Cameras clicked; Alex felt his hand being shook in a hurricane of light and applause, except he was going to _survive_ and he made his way out? Alex stumbled his way back to the seats, collapsing back into the chair. _It’ll be fine?_

      Alex looked over at Aaron. Something inside of him, for the first time, settled. Satisfied. _It’ll be fine._

* * *

 

      “Now, for the final awards! We had a lot of great performances this year for the big band category, and it wasn’t easy for the judges to pick -”

       _Yeah, yeah, get on with it._ Angelica wanted to yell, but years of social customs held her back.

      “In third place -” Angelica could feel her heart clench, practically hear the breaths caught by the hundreds of students hoping that maybe they had won, “- Thermidor High!”

      Lafayette let out a cheer, clapping as the large group of students ran up to the stage. _Wasn’t expecting them to have a good music program, considering how often they switch conductors._

      “In second place --"  _I’d be okay with second place? No I wouldn’t who am I kidding, I hate second place -_ “Empire High!”

 _God_ **_fucking_ ** _dammit._ Angelica briefly considered her testimony in court, on trial for homicide. ‘Your Honor, they had it coming!’ probably wouldn’t taken well.

      But as the khaki and polo wearing mass of boys slid towards the stage, Angelica _seriously_ began to consider it. A bass guitar could probably serve as an effective bludgeoning weapon.

      “In first place, and this was a _very_ difficult decision - ”

      Her breath caught in her throat as the judge looked down at the paper in his hand. Absent-mindedly, she remembered something Washington had said a few days earlier: _“In the end, the solos don’t matter,”_ he had explained, ignoring the gasps of shock that went up from the horn section. _“The notes, the dynamics, the rhythm, none of it really matters. The most important thing is that the whole band plays together as one voice. Music is, above all, a communication.”_

      The judge cleared his throat. “The winner of the big band category of the twenty-seventh annual RevFest competition is-”

* * *

 

**BATTLE OF THE BANDS (HAMILSQUAD 2.0, FIND A WAY TO STOP JEFFERSON)**

**BRAH BRAH:** WE WON!!!

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** WE WON!!!!!!

 **ANGELICAAAA:** FIRST PLACE ASSHOLES

 **ANGELICAAAA:** We lost combo but that doesn’t matter BECAUSE WE WON BIG BAND FIRST PRIZE!!!

 **ANGELICAAAA:** SUCK MY ASS KING GEORGE!!!!

 **EIFFEL TOWER:** NOUS AVONS GAGNÉ!!

 **HORSEFUCKER:** okay john we won and i dont want another accident souring our victory

 **HORSEFUCKER:** so stay away from trucks

 **SMALL TURTLE (YOU):** too late i'm already wheeling my hospital bed into the freeway

 **SMALL TURTLE **(YOU)** : **can't stop me motherfuckers

 ** **✿ ELIZA ✿** :** has anyone seen alex?

 **✿ ELIZA ✿:** lafayette is looking for him, they says he owes them snacks (´・-・｀)

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** J’AI ACHETÉ LES SNACKS!!

 **SMALL TURTLE **(YOU)** :** you’re like loaded dude

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** it is how do you say

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** intent behind it? the message he sends

 **✿ ELIZA ✿** :  （−＿−；）

 **ANGELICAAAA:** Hes with burr

 **✿ ELIZA ✿** :   ( ˵•́‸  •̀˵)that can’t be good...

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** if they start fighting again i swear to god im going to send them BOTH to la hôpital

 **SMALL TURTLE **(YOU)** :** please do i’m bored and i want to hang with someone

 **SMALL TURTLE **(YOU)** :** hospital squad

 **FRESH BAGUETTE:** mon dieu

 **SMALL TURTLE **(YOU)** : **well

 **SMALL TURTLE **(YOU)** : **i’m sure they’ll be fine

* * *

 

      “Burr, can we talk about what happened?”

      “Sorry, no can do,” Aaron quickly replied, attempting unsuccessfully to shove his clarinet into his backpack without first disassembling it. “I've got a soufflé in the oven and it just can't wait.”

      “Burr!”

      “You know how it is; I've got things to see and people to do. Wait, shit, I mean-”

      “Burr.”

      Aaron glanced down at his nonexistent watch. “Well, would you look at my suspiciously bare wrist. Looks like I've got to g-”

       _“Aaron._ ”

      “Yes?” Aaron said, voice cracking worse than it did when he first started HRT. Alex was staring at him, looking almost bemused. “I'm sorry,” Aaron blurted before he could stop himself. The other boy just cocked his head to one side and closed the door behind him, drowning out the noise outside and leaving them alone.

      “For what?” He asked, closing the distance between them a step or two. Aaron just blinked before hesitantly placing his clarinet down in its case.

      “For kissing you,” he replied. It felt strange to say it out loud, to admit to it. “Without your permission.” _Like an asshole,_ he almost added, but he managed to bite his tongue.

      “Okay,” Alex said, crossing his arms. “Apology accepted.”

      Aaron was thoroughly lost at this point. “Sorry, what?”

      “I forgive you,” Alex replied, as if it wasn’t the most ridiculous sentence ever produced by human lips and vocal chords. “Do you mind telling me why you did it?”

      That didn’t do anything to lessen Burr’s confusion. “Because I’m in love with you,” he said, frowning like it was the most obvious thing in the world. When he saw Alex turn red, he realized his mistake. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said it like that, I-”

      “No, it’s fine, honesty is the best policy,” Alex replied quickly, still blushing. “It’s just, uh- wow. Okay.” He scratched the back of his head, further tangling his already messy hair. “Have you told your fancy college girlfriend about this? She might have a problem with it.” He forced a half-hearted laugh, which sounded more pained than anything else. “God, have you learned nothing from me?”

      It took Burr a moment to realize that Hamilton was talking about Theodosia, and he hastily shook his head. “No, no, that’s been over for months.”

      Alex’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Why?”

      “She, uh… She could tell that I liked someone else.”

      And that brought them back to the conversation at hand. Burr hoped fleetingly that God might finally take notice of his lifelong blasphemy and send a lightning strike down to smite him, but The Almighty Father was off helping Tim Tebow score a touchdown at the moment and really couldn’t be bothered.

      “Oh,” Alex said mildly. “And this has been going on for how long exactly?”

      Burr tried to put aside his embarrassment and thought about it for a moment. “Since, like… November? I think.”

      “That’s respectable,” Alex said with a nod.

      “It sucked,” Aaron replied. “Like, a lot.”

      “I imagine it did.”

      Aaron sighed and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees. “And it’s still just horribly awkward, since you’ve obviously never thought about me that way, and... I should probably just stop talking. And breathing. And existing, really.”

      “Hey, hey!” Alex exclaimed, rushing to Burr, only to hesitate when he was still a few feet away. “Who says I _never_ thought about you that… I mean, there was that whole thing freshman year, but I came down from that cloud real fast. I never even told Laf about it, but I think they knew anyway. I didn’t think you’d ever… I mean…” Alex paused, fumbling to find the right words, ignoring the look of astonishment on Aaron’s face. “You were just so _cool,_ you know? Like you had your shit together and everything, and I was just this obnoxious kid with something to prove, I guess, but you….” He started to ramble. “You put up with me! You let me be your _friend,_ and I guess I thought I was reading into things too much-”

      “Hang on,” Burr said, cutting him off. “I did not understand a word of that.”

      Alex sighed dramatically. “I may or may not have had a thing for you freshman year. I told you things that I haven’t told anyone about, not even John, and when you didn’t freak out or abandon me I guess… Well, you clearly weren’t into it, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I got over it.”

      Well, that was new. “So you’re saying I missed my window,” Aaron sighed. “Just peachy.”

      “No! I mean…” At this point Alexander finally went to stand in front of Aaron, who found himself compelled to look up at the other boy instead of staring at the floor. “Am I in love with you? No.”

      Aaron winced, but Hamilton carried on.

      “But when you kissed me, I wasn’t freaked out or anything, I was just… Surprised. Because I’d imagined you doing it so many times, only I’d forgotten that I’d ever imagined it. So there’s some unpacking I need to do, if that’s okay.”

      Burr blinked; none of this was going the way he expected. “Of course that’s okay, whatever you need.”

      “Good,” Hamilton replied, somewhat smugly. “Because it’s not every day a person finds out that super-cool-college-girlfriend-having Aaron Burr has been pining after them practically all year. Excuse me if I want to revel in it a little.”

      “Can you just tell me what you want, please?” Aaron snapped, harsher than he intended. Alexander seemed taken aback, but he nodded and cocked his head to one side, thinking about it.

      “Well, finals are coming up, so neither of us are gonna have a lot of time,” he began thoughtfully, “and I would prefer no more coffee dates - I’m probably putting Usnavi and Vanessa’s hypothetical children through Harvard by this point - but I think that movies are a thing people do? Or, like, sushi? I dunno, I was never actually that good at this, no matter what they tell you.”

      “Wait,” Aaron said, the gears in his head finally clicking into place. “Are you asking me on a date?”

      Alex blushed. “I thought that was obvious.”

      “Well, it wasn’t.”

      “Oh. Well, you know, dates are things people do when they want to get to know each other better and decide whether or not kissing is a thing they’d like to do again,” Alex explained, blush deepening. “Even if they’ve kind of already decided.”

      Aaron swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Sounds great.”

* * *

 

**THEO**

**BURR (YOU):** I figured it out

 **THEO:** Really?

 **THEO:** What’s his name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment if you enjoyed!


	12. Something They Can Never Take Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read/commented/left kudos!!! Y'all are the real MVPs

       John Laurens sighed back into his hospital pillow, watching the back of his father’s coat disappear out the door, grinning in smug satisfaction as the door slammed shut. _Not like he can do anything to me_ **_here_ ** , John thought, grasping to his bedside table to flip through his sketchbook.

      Nothing.

      John looked around the room, spotting his sketchbook in the farthest corner. _Of course._ He snorted. _Moving my sketchbook isn’t gonna do anything, Dad. Thought you would’ve learned that, at the very least._

      The door creaked open, and John panicked briefly at the thought of his father returning, but _Henry Laurens never politely opened the door, it was always a stiff, brisk, confident swing._

      Maria Lewis stood in the doorframe, peeking into the room.

      “Hey,” John said, weakly.

      “Hi? I’m so sorry to bother you...” She said. “I just - Angelica said you wouldn’t get any visitors this weekend because of RevFest, so I thought I should... stop by? I know we haven’t talked a lot so...” She held up a plastic shopping bag. John could see the outlines of a few bars of chocolate and various snacks. “I brought food?”

      John sighed in relief. “Maria Lewis, you’re literally the best person I have seen all day. No joke.”

      Maria relaxed slightly, stepping closer. She plopped the bag onto John’s lap and pulled over a chair. John tore into a bar of milk chocolate, only slightly self-conscious at Maria’s nervous stares.

      “So... who was that... person who just left your room?” Maria asked, after a painful minute of silence. She jerked her head at the closed door. “The one in the grey suit. He looked kinda...”

      John swallowed a bit of chocolate, grimacing. “My dad. He was mad because...” John struggled to think of proper phrasing, “well, because of some dumb shit.” _My being gay, not being interested in “the family business,” having nonfunctioning legs, etc., etc., etc._

      Maria’s eyebrows raised an almost imperceptible amount. “He wasn’t mad at _you_ , was he?”

      John shrugged, stuffing another mouthful of chocolate into his mouth to delay a response. "'S not like I can do anything 'bout it. He'sh jusht annoyed I can't be...." John waved his free hand, "like, the ultimate Republican straight dude."

      Maria winced and drummed her fingernails against her leg. "And I'm guessing your broken spine isn’t helping."

      John shrugged again. "Yeah, well, it wasn't like I had much of an interest in stuff that involved legs in the first place. Another reason why he hates me - I wasn't ever interested in farming and football or whatever." John stared at the IV drip next to his bed, averting his gaze from Maria. _Great job, now you've done it, John. Just start venting to someone you barely know._ "I know, this is all very cheery, great for a visit," he added in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

      Maria cracked a small grin. "Hospitals aren't really made to be ‘cheery,’ so I think I can forgive you."

      "Hey, can you do me a favor?" John looked back over from the IV drip. "Can you get my sketchbook from over there?" He pointed to the black-bound sketchbook in the corner.

      Maria nodded, grabbing it and dropping it on the bed table, before sitting back down.

      "Thanks, dude. You have no idea how boring this place is. Plus, the nurses won't let me use my laptop all the time because it's ‘damaging my eyes.’ How dumb is that? Like, yeah, it is damaging them, but I don't have functioning legs, why would I give a fuck about my eyes?"

      "How'd your sketchbook get over there anyway?"

      "My dad put it over there when he visited." John grimaced. "He does it every time, for some reason."

      Maria bit the inside of her cheek. "Either you're really bad at describing people, or your dad is a huge asshole."

      "Well... he _is_ a huge asshole." John looked up at Maria, wearing a resigned smile. "But like, he's my dad. He’s family. Sure, he’s _shit_ family, but I have to deal with that."

      “You don’t _have_ to deal with someone who doesn’t care about you.”

      John stared at Maria. She stared out of the single window, fists clenched in her lap. She paused, glaring at the window like it contained some dark secret. “Just because someone tells you that you _have_ to love someone doesn’t make it true.” She turned back to John, who suddenly found it very difficult to articulate the mess of thoughts swimming through his head.

      He searched for something to say, stumbling incoherently over words, “I- well - I can’t just _cut ties._ My - my siblings, and my dad _does_ care, but -”

“Did he ever hurt you?”

      Yes **no** , _it could have been worse._ John nervously reaches for his arm, no dinner tonight, you aren’t leaving your room, _this was your fault,_ a slap to his arm, his face, I don’t know how it happened Doctor, John was just playing outside, you aren’t going to school like that there are still bruises, what would the other kids think, _I’m doing this for your own good, it’s because I care about you -_

      Pause. _No he doesn’t._

_You aren’t any different. He doesn’t care about you._

He _does,_ he always says - he does it because he _cares._

But why would he?

_This was your fault._

      Maria sighed. “Sorry for making this awkward. I... I just hate seeing... well, maybe it’s none of my business.”

      John sunk deeper into his pillow. “It’s fine.”

      Maria looked out the window again. “Sorry.”

      “Nah, I just... I thought I had sorted all that shit out, but...” John inhaled. “Clearly not.”

      Maria looked back over at John. “It’s fine to not be okay. It’s something they can never take away, no matter what they tell you.”

  As Maria left the hospital room, John ran his hand across the numerous pages of his sketchbook, careful not to smudge any of his drawings.  _Something they can never take away?_

* * *

 

**ANGELICA**

**ANGELICA:** Burr since when are you dating alex???

 **BURR (YOU):** Uh

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **You just found out about this??? It’s been like two weeks

 **ANGELICA:** For some reason i am the last to know about these things

 **ANGELICA:** Anyway as i was saying there’s something you oughta know

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **Yeah yeah if i hurt him you’ll murder me in my sleep with a spatula and half a pineapple

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **I already got the shovel talk from Laf and Herc

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **God I already punched the kid in the face what else can i do???

 **ANGELICA:** What?? No no nothing like that

 **ANGELICA:** I was just gonna say good fucking luck alex is an asshole

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **Oh

 **ANGELICA:** You punched him in the face????

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **Uhhh

 **ANGELICA:** Burr i think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **… Okay

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **Sorry for hitting on you that one time I guess???

 **ANGELICA:** It’s OK

 **ANGELICA:** You didn’t leave much of impression anyway

 ** **BURR (YOU)** : **Ouch???

* * *

 

**DON’T WASTE MEMES ON HIM**

**DON’T WASTE MEMES ON HIM:** john i know your dad is pretty shitty

 **DON’T WASTE MEMES ON HIM:** my uncle is kind of similar

 **DON’T WASTE MEMES ON HIM:** and if you ever want to maybe to talk about it i’m here i guess?

 **SMALL TURTLE (YOU):** no offense burr but like you’re the last person i want to have emotional conversations with

 **DON’T WASTE MEMES ON HIM:** oh thank god

* * *

 

**PARTNER IN CRIME**

**PARTNER IN CRIME:**  i think i found out mr franklins twitter

 **HERCULES MULLIGAN!!! (YOU):** peg its midnight

 ** **HERCULES MULLIGAN!!! (YOU)** : **wait

 ** **HERCULES MULLIGAN!!! (YOU)** :** mr franklin has a twitter?

 **PARTNER IN CRIME:** well

**PARTNER IN CRIME:**

**100 dolla** _@bfranks_

Fun Fact: Electricity is not an effective means of cooking turkeys! I am also possibly suffering from electrocution.

 **king louis** _@klouis_

 _@bfranks_ Ben, non

 **100 dolla** _@bfranks_

Now for my next experiment: air bathing.

 **king louis** _@klouis_

 _@bfranks_ I do not want to ask

 **100 dolla** _@bfranks_

 _@klouis_ You’re free to join me... ;)

 ** **HERCULES MULLIGAN!!! (YOU)** : **holy shit

 **PARTNER IN CRIME:** yyyyyeah

* * *

 

**BATTLE OF THE BANDS (HAMILSQUAD 2.0 STOP JEFFERSON)**

**ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU):** angelica can you pick up some snacks on the way back home alex and i are kinda hungry

 ** **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU)** :** even if he won’t admit it

 **ALEX:** i’m fine

 ** **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU)** : **>:/

 **ANGELICAAAA:** Sure also marias coming over

 **ANGELICAAAA:** Question do red and pink go well together?

 **HERC:** only if you balance it out with white

 **ALEX:** YOU ARTFUL SLUT

 **ANGELICAAAA:** WHAT DID YOU CALL ME

 **ALEX:** SORRY sorry your cat SHE KNOCKED SOMETHING OVER I DIDN’T MEAN IT PLEASE DON’T KILL ME

 **ALEX:**  I KNOW SLUT IS A TERRIBLE WORD I’M SORRY

 **ANGELICA:** Hmph

 ** **ELIZA SCHUYWALKER (YOU)** :** celia... (  •̀ x •́)

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** i’ve tapped into the enigmatic mind of aaron burr

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** here’s my burr impression, you guys judge me

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** “what if instead of hitting on alex... i actually hit him.”

 **ALEX:** perfect

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** so whenre you actually gonna ask the guy to prom???

 **ALEX:** uh funny you should ask

* * *

**JOHN**

**JOHN:** hey

 **MARIA (YOU):** hi

 **JOHN:** i just wanted to say thanks

 **MARIA (YOU):** ?

 **JOHN:** for

 **JOHN:** for the chocolate

* * *

 

      Aaron’s arms were beginning to strain under the weight of the boombox, which was currently blasting “In Your Eyes” at full volume to every dorm within a mile radius. _Maybe,_ he briefly considered, **_maybe_** _this wasn’t the best idea_.

      Aaron almost thought about yelling to get Alex’s attention, but that would ruin the _aesthetic._ He supposed he could always throw rocks at the window, but that would be mixing references, and Alex had been very specific. Besides, nothing ruined the mood more than shattered glass and a $300 fine.

      Finally, after what seemed like hours, the window cracked open, and Aaron straightened, heart pounding. _This is it, the big moment!_

      “Burr, _pardon mon anglais,_  but what the _fuck_ are you doing?” Lafayette shouted from the window, hair still in disarray, clearly having just woken up. Burr’s heart plummeted faster than a ten ton weight.

      “Wh - Lafayette?” Burr yelled back, the boombox shaking under his skinny arms.

The Marquis looked around the yard, taking in the lights carefully strung around the quad between the dorms, the teetering boombox, and finally, Aaron himself.

      “Are you asking _moi_ to prom? That is very sweet, but Mulligan has already _-”_

      “What? No! Why - why are _you_ here?” Burr sputtered. “I thought you lived in the exchange student houses?”

      Lafayette blinked. “Mister Washington pulled some strings. _C’est chez moi quand_ I am in _les États-Unis._  What are _you_ doing here?”

      Burr’s arms finally gave way to the boombox, which came crashing down onto the soft yard and ended the song.

     Lafayette stared at the boombox, which began to sputter sporadically, then back at Aaron.

      “Is Alex here? He lives in the room next to you, right? I checked that like a million times.” Aaron asked, rubbing his arm sympathetically.

      Lafayette seemed to finally register what was happening and replied excitedly, “Oh! Yes, yes, he lives here.”

      “Can I see him?” Burr added meekly.

      Lafayette looked behind them, tapping their fingers on the windowsill and biting their lip. “He is... in the shower.”

      Burr stared at Lafayette. His heart had already sunk into his stomach, but it looked like it had prepared its pickaxe and was ready to dig. “Is this a bad time?”

      Lafayette’s grimace confirmed that it was indeed, a bad time. “I can go get him if you wish?” They added unhelpfully.

      Burr began to shake his head but, at that very moment, a shower door slammed somewhere in the building, footsteps pounded on the floor, and the front door burst open.

      “Burr?!” Alexander Hamilton shouted, racing across the quad. It took Aaron approximately half a second to realize three fundamental truths at the exact same time:

  1. Oh shit Alex is here.
  2. Oh shit everything is all messed up.
  3. Oh shit Alex _isn’t wearing pants._



      No, Alex was clothed only in a hastily wrapped towel that did very little to preserve his dignity. Water dripped from his shoulder-length hair and plastered it to his neck.

      Something short-circuited in Aaron’s brain as he drunk in the sight of so much bare wet skin, failing to notice Lafayette slinking away from the windowsill, only to return moments later with his phone.

      “Burr, what are you doing? What’s going on?” Alex asked, looking suspiciously around the yard.

      Aaron could only stand and gape at the half-naked boy in front of him. “Well - I -” he began, helplessly watching as Alex noticed the boombox lying on the grass, occasionally spitting out a fragment of bad 80s music, only to revert to static. Aaron could relate.

      “Were you trying to...” Alex began, looking up at Burr.

      “No! Of course not - why would - why would you think that, it’s not - it’s nothing! I’ll see you later!” Burr said before dashing towards the exit of the quad. _Smooth operator, Aaron._

      He was halted only by a frenzy of angry curses in a multitude of languages, which erupted from Alex’s mouth and made Aaron stop in his tracks. He turned around, mouth agape.

      Alex stomped his foot against the grass. “Now what am I gonna do with _my_ boombox! I was gonna ask _you!_ I was getting ready to head over to your dorm - dammit!”

      Aaron’s mouth opened and closed like a drowning fish. It took several seconds before he could process what he had just heard.

      “Wait, so will you go to prom with me?” He asked, pointing at Alex, who blinked, dumbfounded.

      The two stared at each other for an uncomfortable period of time.

      Alex was still only wearing a towel.

      Suddenly Aaron found himself with an armful of wet, half-naked Alexander Hamilton, who was squeezing him tighter than a cobra and getting his shirt sopping wet. Aaron somehow didn’t mind.

      “Of course I will! You! I can’t believe it - Burr, you big sap!” Alex exclaimed, picking up the other boy and spinning him around, spraying water across the quad.

      Aaron was simultaneously impressed and fucking terrified.

      _...I’m going to prom with Alexander Hamilton._

     “I’m going to prom with Alexander Hamilton,” he said, staring at the ground as Alexander continued to spin.

      Lafayette called out from the window, camera pressed against their eye, “Now kiss!”

      Hamilton glared at Lafayette, who was squinting through the camera at them and grinning, and gently put Aaron back down on the ground. “I mean,” he said with a lopsided smile, “that _would_ complete the cheesy eighties movie vibe.”

      “You don’t need an excuse for wanting to kiss me,” Burr said quietly as he fiddled with the bottom of his now extremely damp shirt. He glanced up at Alex, who was staring at him with open brown eyes.

      His lashes were still wet, and the droplets caught between them almost resembled tears. Aaron reached out and slid his fingers into Alex’s dripping hair and, ignoring the excited squeal from the window, leaned in to press their lips together. Alex threw his arms around Aaron’s neck, wet skin soaking the back of his shirt, but Aaron didn’t care, only focused on the way Alex’s lips moved against his own or the wet slide of his chest. They stayed like that for a long while, as stars began to blossom behind Aaron’s eyes, until Lafayette cleared their throat and they broke apart, dazed.

      “Alex?” Aaron murmured, cupping the other boy’s cheek tenderly.

      “Yeah?” Alex replied breathlessly.

      “Can you please put some pants on?”

      “Oh, shit, yeah. I’ll go do that.”

* * *

**WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER <3**

**WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER <3: **MADS WERE GONNA BE ROOMMATES!!!!!

 **WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER <3: **HERES TO FOUR MORE YEARS!!!!

 **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU):** Thomas that’s great!

* * *

  **DOLLEY**

 ** **MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU)** : **PLEASE KILL ME

 **DOLLEY:** What did he do this time?

* * *

 

      “So how does it feel to know that you’re almost done with freshman year?” Herc asked, poking Peggy in the shoulder. Peggy just shrugged and took a bite of their sandwich.

      “Weird. I’m excited about next year’s classes, though. I talked to Mister Tallmadge and he said I can take the espionage elective next year, even though it’s usually just for seniors.”

      “Seriously?” Herc exclaimed, taken aback.

      “Yeah. I’ll have to change my schedule around a bit, but I’m really excited. Who knows? Maybe I’ll work for the CIA someday. That’d be cool.”

      “I-I,” Herc tried to say, blinking rapidly.

      “Hold on; are you crying?”

      “ _No!_ I just.... I have something in my eye.”

      Alex was paying the whole conversation absolutely no attention. “What if I nominated Adams?” He asked dryly, squinting at the prom court ballot box in the corner of the busy cafeteria.

      “For prom king?” Peggy asked. They paused in the middle of their sandwich. “I mean, he’s dating Abigail. They’re like, the most stable couple in this school. If you’re gonna do it, you have to nominate both of them.”

      “I’m gonna do it.”

      “You do you, man.”

* * *

 

**A CHORUS LINE**

**DOLLEYFACE (YOU):** Yo martha congrats on the nomination

 **WAYLE OF A TALE:** omg im so excited!!!!

 **LAMB:** wait dolley who else got nominated???

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **Uhh

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **Okay prom queen noms are martha, mercy warren, abigail smith and…

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **Oh angelica schuyler whoda thunk it

 **LAMB:** she's pretty attractive though

 **WAYLE OF A TALE:** fair

 **DOLLEYFACE (YOU):** and prom king noms are john adams, von steuben, and jefferson

 **LAMB:** ugh jefferson

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **^^^

 **WAYLE OF A TALE:** ^^^

 **WAYLE OF A TALE:** slim pickings this year i guess

 **LAMB:** who nominated adams?

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **No clue

 **LAMB:** von steuben is going with ben walker AND will north

 **WAYLE OF A TALE:**???

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **No way can they compete with MY two hot dates ;))))

 **LAMB:** dolley…

 ** **DOLLEYFACE (YOU)** : **;)))))

* * *

 

**MISS ADORABLE**

**MISS ADORABLE:** JOHN.

 **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (YOU):** yes dear

 **MISS ADORABLE:** WHO NOMINATED ME FOR PROM QUEEN?

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION**  (YOU)**: **havent the foggiest

 **MISS ADORABLE:** THIS IS AN OUTRAGE.

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (** YOU)**: **yes dear

 **MISS ADORABLE:** THE WHOLE IDEA OF ‘PROM QUEEN’ IS COMPLETELY MISOGYNISTIC.

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION**  (YOU)**: **yes dear

 **MISS ADORABLE:** IT’S HETERONORMATIVE.

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION**  (YOU)**: **yes dear

 **MISS ADORABLE:** PITS WOMEN AGAINST EACH OTHER.

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION** (YOU)**: **yes dear

 **MISS ADORABLE:** REINFORCES THE GENDER BINARY.

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION** (YOU)**: **yes dear

 **MISS ADORABLE:** DO YOU WANT TO SEE A PICTURE OF MY DRESS????

 ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION** : **yes dear

* * *

 

**BATTLE OF THE BANDS (HAMILSQUAD 2.0 STOP JEFFERSON)**

**ALEX:** PROM TONIGHTTTTT

 **HERC:** SHIT!!! I DIDNT GET TO MAKE MY ‘AND THE PROMS TOMORROW JOKE!!!’

 **HERC:** DAMMIT

 **LAF:** you have brought shame on your whole family

 **LAF:** the only way to restore your honor is a kiss from a noble ;))

 **ANGELICAAAA:** Youre mixing it up, laf. Hell have to go on a three year quest to capture the avatar and restore his honor

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** have fun at prom without me i guess…

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** i suppose i’ll just waste away

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** by myself

 **LAURENS (´･ω･`):** ALONE

 **HERC:** laurens chill well make it up to you

 **ALEX:** has anyone seen eliza???

* * *

 

      John scoffed and put his phone face down on the bedside table. If his friends were going to ignore him, he might as well ignore them back. It wasn’t like he was devastated to be missing prom - the cost of a ticket alone was enough to put him off - but he couldn’t help feeling like he’d been forgotten. Sighing, he picked up his sketchbook and flipped to a new page, where he began to sketch out the familiar form of a soft curving shell. John was a fan of turtles. Turtles didn’t have to deal with prom or douchebag fathers or any of this. They could just pull themselves in and tell the world to fuck off. They lived the dream.

      There was a knock at the door and John looked up, surprised at what he saw.

      Eliza Schuyler stood tentatively in the doorway, a backpack over one shoulder and a bouquet of balloons in one hand. She was dressed in a knee-length gown of floaty blue material and had a sheepish grin on her face.

      “Wh-” John started to say.

      “I felt bad that you couldn’t make it to prom,” Eliza replied quickly, cutting him off, “so I brought the prom to you! I couldn’t fit a punch bowl in my backpack, so I brought a pack of Capri Suns, and I’ve got the rest of the squad on Skype.”

      John stuttered for a moment before finally replying, “You didn’t have to do all this. You should be out having fun.”

      Eliza just rolled her eyes and went to tie the balloons to the end of the bed. “Please. Peggy can have enough excitement for the both of us. I’ve got two more years to watch horny teenagers grind on each other to bad pop music.”

      “Still, you don’t have to-” John began, but Eliza unzipped her backpack and in one fluid motion removed a plastic IHOP bag.

      “I brought pancakes.”

      “Eliza, I know we’re young and that this is sudden, but will you marry me?”

      “John, you’re gay. Like, not even bi, or pan, or anything. Straight up gay.””

      “I’m not _straight_ up anything.”

      “I walked into that one, didn’t I."      

* * *

 

      “Aaaaand… video chat is go,” Alex announced as he bent the laptop backwards for everyone to see and giving John a good look at the gaudily re-decorated gym. The group sat outside of the gym, laptop balanced on a precarious stack of chairs.

      “You’re not missing out on anything,” Angelica said dryly, glancing at the screen. “Von Steuben already has two warnings for ‘inappropriate dancing.’”

      “Sounds wild,” Laurens replied, voice crackling over the connection. “Yo Laf, looking classy.”

      Lafayette grinned affectionately, smoothing out the skirt of the floor-length violet gown they were wearing. “It is beautiful, _non?_ ” They said, glancing at Herc, who let out a sigh of relief.

      “It took me forever to make. The fabric was a bitch to work with, and I kept accidentally stabbing myself with pins, but I wanted it to be perfect.”

      “Aww,” Laurens said sarcastically, but Lafayette was staring at Herc, starry-eyed. Without warning, they leaned across the table, grabbed Herc by the tie, and kissed the boy soundly on the mouth. Herc made a surprised noise, and the rest of the table fell silent, half shocked, half relieved that the whole ridiculous affair was finally resolved. After a long moment, Lafayette pulled away, leaving Herc dazed and smeared with lipstick.

      “I fucking knew it! I fucking _knew_ you two were dating!” Laurens screamed, sitting up in bed so fast he immediately cringed and clutched his ribs. The video screen fizzled from the sound, and Eliza immediately rushed to reposition the laptop.

      “I don’t know what you're talking about,” Lafayette said innocently, carefully reapplying their lipstick. “It is just _le manière français_. _”_

      “It fucking is _not,”_ Laurens coughed as he fell back onto his pillow.

      “You're reading too much into things,” Herc said with a dopey grin as he pulled Lafayette into his lap, earning a delighted gasp from the Marquis. “We're just really good friends. Just bros being bros.”

      “Shut the fuck up.”

       _“Je ne suis pas ton frère, mon amour.”_

      “It’s just an expression, Laf.”

* * *

      The results of the election simultaneously surprised everyone and no one.

* * *

 

      “Did _you_ vote for John Adams?” Peggy asked Herc as the boy in question made his way nervously to the stage, looking dazed. Herc only shrugged in response.

      “Well, yeah. Didn’t you?”

      “Well. Yeah.” They looked over to Lafayette. “Did you vote for him?”

       _“Bien sur!_ They are... well, could you have thought of anyone else?” Lafayette asked.

      Peggy stared at their cup of juice. “Do you think anyone _didn’t_ vote for them?”

      _(No.)_

* * *

 

      Abigail Smith smiled, elated, for about thirty seconds as the crown was placed on her head before clearing her throat, removing a stack of notecards from the folds of her long-sleeved, blue-green dress, and stepping up to the microphone.

      “Thank you, students of Union Heights for this prestigious honor. I would now like to tell you all why having a prom queen and king is archaic and enforces heteronormative ideas..”

      “Miss Smith, the prom queen doesn't usually make a speech…”

      “Well, we're all about breaking societal norms tonight, aren’t we Principal Washington?” Abigail said, eyeing the sizable amount of same-gender couples in the crowd.

Angelica hooted in approval from the crowd, slipping her hand around Maria’s waist. Maria grinned back.

      “So are they like… going as friends?” Samuel Seabury asked, raising an eyebrow at the pair.

      Charles Lee sighed and placed his cup of punch down on a nearby table before grabbing the other boy by the hand and pulling him onto the dance floor. “Samuel, they’re lesbians.”

* * *

 

      Alex was almost having a good time, despite the obnoxious pop music blasting from the speaker right behind him and the mere idea that Samuel Seabury and Charles Lee were having a good time. He inched closer to Aaron, who was pouring himself a cup of punch.

      “So, what are we supposed to do here? Dance?” Alex asked, looking around the crowded room.

      Aaron shrugged. “I think so? Pretty sure the waltz is coming up soon.”

      Alex pretended to gag. “Ugh, _please_ don’t make me waltz - who the hell has the time to learn that kind of shit anyway?”

      Aaron nervously took a sip from his drink.

      “You learned how to waltz, didn’t you?” Alex asked, smiling slightly.

      “It was an optional class in middle school! I thought it would be interesting!” Aaron said, defensively.

      Alex snorted _(oh god it’s adorable.)_ “Well, why don’t you teach me, Mister ‘I-learned-how-to-waltz-for-fun.’”

      Lafayette swept by in their deep purple gown, accompanied by a grinning Hercules Mulligan.

      “Smooth, Alex,” Mulligan said, reaching for a plate to pile with food. He turned to Aaron. “He knows how to waltz; Laf taught him and John for fun once. Ironic, because Laf’s terrible at dancing.”

      Lafayette playfully swatted at Mulligan’s shoulder. “You are ruining, how you say, the moment? And I am not ‘terrible at dancing!’”

      “Didn’t you, like, flee France in disgrace because some girl made fun of you for being so bad at dancing?”

      “I will have you know I have taken several remedial waltz classes since then!”

      Mulligan rolled his eyes. “Sure thing, buddy.”

      Aaron looked over at Alex, who was blushing furiously. “If you wanted to dance with me, you could have just asked,” he said.

       _“Bonjour_ , y’all!” Jefferson strode towards the table, tailed by a forlorn looking James Madison and dressed in the gaudiest magenta suit Aaron had seen in his entire life, complete with 1800s cravat. Aaron had to blink to make sure someone hadn’t slipped something into the punch.

       _Nope, it’s just Thomas._

“Oh, and congrats on the RevFest win,” he said to the gathered jazz players. “It must have been a pleasant kind of.... distraction,” he finished spitefully.

      Alex slammed his thankfully-empty cup onto the table, rolling up his sleeves. “Okay, you know what?!”

      Aaron placed his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Alexander, no.”

      “Alexander, _yes,_ ” he hissed, striding towards Thomas, hell-bent on that kind of beautiful retribution seen only in the dramatic climaxes of movies. “He’s had this coming for a _long_ time.”

      Aaron sighed. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to see it himself.

      “Well, look who it-”

      Thomas couldn’t finish before Hamilton had grabbed Thomas’ (undoubtedly expensive) frilly white necktie and pulled him in close. “You’re coming with me, cravat fucker,” the younger boy hissed, dragging a struggling Thomas behind him.

 Aaron watched as James fruitlessly chased after the pair, before eventually deciding to just sit back and watch. _What the hell, when else are you going to see this?_

* * *

 

     Aaron decided the only thing more satisfying than punching Alexander Hamilton was watching Alexander Hamilton punch someone else. Especially when that someone happened to be Thomas Jefferson.

* * *

 

      “God, the _nerve_ of that pedantic little shit. I cannot _believe_ him.”

      “I hear you. Can you tilt your head back or-”

      “Oh yeah, sure. It’s just - ouch.”

      “Sorry.”

      “It’s not _your_ fault; it’s _his._ I fucking _hate_ Alexander Hamilton so much, I can barely-” Thomas let out a deep sigh and dropped his hands, which had been clenched into fists, letting them unfurl half-heartedly.

      “I know,” James replied, dabbing at the other boy’s lip with a wet paper towel, which came away bloody each time. The two were alone in the bathroom, the sounds of the party somewhat muffled by the tiled walls and rows of empty stalls.

      “Ugh, I would love to just, like,” Thomas continued, wincing from the pain, “throw him into, like, a vat of manure. He wouldn’t die, but he wouldn’t be able to get the smell off for _months._ ”

      “Uh huh,” James replied, falling back onto his heels and depositing the soiled paper towel in the garbage can. Thomas shifted in his position on the sink counter and gingerly poked at his mouth.

      He flashed James a self-pitying grin. “How bad is it?”

      “You’ll live,” James replied dryly, “but the kid can punch. You have a pretty bad split lip.”

      “Hm.” Thomas considered this for a moment before looking up, cocky as anything, and asking, “Wanna kiss it and make it better?”

      Something in James snapped. _That’s it._

Something in him that was sick of all this. He was sick of the six years of saying nothing, the six years of seemingly innocent touches that could have been _construed_ as romantic but never quite made the cut. He was sick of the six years of hearing Thomas babble on about this girl and that and sick of the realization that there would be _four more years_ of this special hell, and then there would be jobs, and then there would be Thomas getting _married_ , God forbid, and James couldn’t just _sit there_ and let it all happen, couldn’t keep _waiting for it._ Even being rejected, being met with fear or disgust, losing Thomas forever, would be better than staying silent.

And so James Madison, in front of God and the world, braced his hands on the counter on either side of Thomas’s hips, went up on his tiptoes, and pressed one short, full kiss to the other boy’s lips.

      Thomas tasted vaguely of blood, mint toothpaste, and punch and, thankfully, not one bit like macaroni and cheese. He let out a sort of surprised sigh that half sounded like James’s name and half sounded like nothing at all, and when James pulled away, he found Thomas staring at him with wide eyes and a dazed expression, seemingly at a loss for words. James scratched the back of his head, strangely calm about the situation and feeling exceedingly nervous about that fact. He let Thomas blink a few times and process what had just happened, not butting in, just letting the other boy formulate his own response. “You-” Thomas started.

      “Yeah.”

      “I mean-”

      “Six years, yeah.”

      Thomas’s eyes bulged, and he put his hand to his mouth before hesitating and leaving it untouched. “Six? That’s-”

      “Ever since we met, yeah. It’s been rough.”

      Thomas’s fingers slid into his own hair and tugged at the temple, which James knew meant he was frazzled beyond comprehension. “Seriously? Wow,” he managed anyway. “I-” he struggled for another moment, and James let him, even as the sinking feeling took hold in his gut. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

      “I was scared,” James replied, surprised that the answer came so easily to him. “Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to think you might lose your best friend because you had to fuck it all up by catching feelings?”

      “Of course I do,” Thomas snapped, and his voice echoed in the tile room, probably harsher than he intended, but it stung anyway. “I’m sorry,” he continued, quieter this time. “I just… I had no idea.”

      “I know,” James sighed. “You-” he was cut off by the strangled sob that Thomas let out as the other boy let his face fall into his hands. “God, Thomas, is it really that disgusting?”

      “No! No- don’t ever think that,” Thomas commanded, looking up at him with red eyes. “I just- were you really in love with me for six years? God, I can’t believe- I mean, I’ve only felt this way since since sophomore year, and it’s _excruciating._ ”

      “Yeah, well, I guess it’s just-” James began, resigned, before he realized what Thomas had just said. “Wait, _what?”_

      Thomas didn’t hear him. He was wiping his eyes uselessly and muttering, “God, I’m so stupid,” between sobs, voice wrecked to the point where he could barely make himself heard.

      “Thomas, what did you just say?”

      His head jerked up, teary eyes refocusing. “Huh?”

      “What did you say about sophomore year?”

      “Oh.” Thomas bit his lip, immediately remembered his injury, cringed, and continued shyly, “that’s when I fell in love with you, I think. I don’t remember there being one thing you did; it just sort of happened. You were probably just being you one day, and I looked at you and thought, _‘oh.’_ It’s you. Of course it’s you. Not very exciting, I know, but that’s how it happened.”

James considered pinching himself, but if this was a dream, he wouldn’t be standing in the boys’ bathroom listening to the muffled sound of bad pop music and chaperones yelling at the students outside getting a little too friendly on the dance floor. For a moment he couldn’t understand why Thomas was so upset - this was incredible! There was never any reason to worry after all; they’d found each other, finally.

Then it hit him. All those years, wasted, and they had been just inches away from each other. If only one of them had been brave enough to reach across the gap; it would have saved them so much pain.

“Why didn’t _you_ say anything?” James demanded, reaching out and wiping a stray tear from Thomas’s cheek.

“I thought you were straight,” he said, reaching up and holding the hand against his face. “Hell, I thought _I_ was straight, but that’s beside the point. I just never saw you dating guys, so-”

      “I never dated _anyone."_

      “Yeah, so then I started thinking that maybe you were aromantic and that it was just a moot point and I should get over it, but I _didn’t._ ”

      “You could have asked me.”

      “I was scared too,” Thomas exclaimed, chuckling slightly. “You were always so aloof; I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me prying, that you might take it the wrong way - well, the _right_ way, I guess - and I was worried what might happen if you were, you know, _interested,_ ‘cause it wouldn’t have been easy, I mean with my parents and everything, I-” he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and let go of James’s. “But that doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter what they think.”

      James kept his hand where it was, cradling Thomas’s cheek, thumb making gentle circles on his soft brown skin. This was so not the way he had expected this night to play out, but thank _god,_ he hadn’t lost anyone. He hadn’t lost Thomas.

      “I’m so sorry,” Thomas went on. “I should have been braver, I should have said something, I-” he coughed, voice coming out scratchier than before. “I think I’m losing my voice.”

      “Then stop talking,” James said gently, and for the second time that night, he closed the gap between them. This time Thomas melted into the kiss, like he was trying to force three years of unsaid declarations into the way his arms wrapped around James’s neck or the way his lips parted against his, pressing back with such fervor James feared he would drown. His hand left Thomas’s cheek and threaded into the other boy’s hair and tangled there, trapping the two of them together, where they belonged.

      After what seemed like far too short a time, they finally broke away for air, and Thomas’s eyes had gone so half-lidded from the intensity James would have sworn that someone had slipped something into the punch. “Do you-” Thomas started, the English language suddenly a struggle, “do you want to get out of here?”

      “God, yes,” James breathed, pressing a kiss at the corner of the other boy’s mouth as he murmured, “where should we go?”

      “There’s a- uh meteor shower tonight,” Thomas replied breathlessly, struggling to find the words as James scattered kisses along his the skin of his cheek and jawline, which still tasted vaguely salty from the tears drying there. “I read about it in Mister Franklin’s almanac.”

      “We’re in the middle of the city,” James murmured, trailing lower.

      “I know a place.”

* * *

 

**UNKNOWN NUMBER**

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:** hey

 **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (YOU):** who is this?

 ** **UNKNOWN NUMBER** : **wow did you delete my number??

 ** **UNKNOWN NUMBER** : **its

 ** **UNKNOWN NUMBER** : **its thomas

 ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (YOU)** : **oh

**UNKNOWN NUMBER is now THOMAS.**

**THOMAS:** i just wanted to say congrats on the prom king thing

 ** **THOMAS** : **and uh

 ** **THOMAS** : **im really sorry

 ** **THOMAS** : **about that whole student council election thing back in sophomore year

 ** **THOMAS** : **i kinda acted like a dick

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (YOU)**** : **kinda?

 ** **THOMAS** : **100% dick

 ** **THOMAS** : **i was a huge asshole

 ** **THOMAS** : **i recognize that now

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (YOU)**** : **oh well i accept your apology

 ** **THOMAS** : **WAIT REALLY???

 ** **THOMAS** : **OH MY GOD!!!! YOU WONT REGRET THIS I SWEAR

 ** ** **THE ADAMS ADMINISTRATION (YOU)**** : **oh i most definitely will

* * *

 

      “I didn’t ever think I’d... y’know... _‘reveal my true feelings,’_ ” James said, squeezing Thomas’s hand with his own. Streaks of silver light filled the sky above them as they lay in the dewey blanket of grass. Thomas’ suit was ruined, but Hamilton’s fists had already damaged it enough he didn’t seem to care about a few grass stains.

      Thomas turned around, raising an eyebrow on his perfect but injured face. “Me neither.” His voice was unusually subdued.

      “Really?”

      Thomas flopped into the grass. “Oh, it was _hell!_ Love is agony, James, writing my only confidant, yet it _failed_ me -”

       _“Writing?”_ James echoed disbelievingly, the reality of Thomas’ confession hadn’t completely settled in yet.

      “Sonnets, poetry, love letters, it could never be _enough_...” Thomas trailed off, and if anybody else had said the same thing James would have bet everything he owned that they were being sarcastic.

       _But this is Thomas Jefferson._ “You wrote me _sonnets?”_

      Thomas rested his free hand on his forehead, like a dying character in a 17th century tragedy giving a heart-rending soliloquy. “But even they couldn’t show the _true meaning_ behind my affections - words had failed me! James, you don’t understand! If _writing_ couldn’t show my love, what could?”

       _Thomas Jefferson is upset about how much_ **_he_ ** _pined after_ **_me._ **

      This was going to take some getting used to.

      “Can I read them?” James asked, staring at the open sky.

      “Read what?”

       James could never understand why these genius types were so stupid. “The _sonnets,_ Thomas. Your poetry.”

       Thomas bit his lip and _oh god he didn’t stop being attractive when he was shy either._ “But you have to understand, they couldn’t hope to express how much I love you!”

       The mental image of Thomas Jefferson, draped across his ridiculous hallway-bed, wearing silken pajamas as he holds a tissue in one hand and a quill in the other, spouting off bad romantic poetry came all too easily to James’ mind.

       Maybe James had too much practice with the idea of Thomas in pajamas.

       Maybe he was trying to adjust to the fact Thomas had openly said he loved James through humor, which was _totally_ a healthy coping mechanism.

      A particularly bright meteor carved a streak across the sky.

      “Make a wish,” James said, almost-halfheartedly. He only had eyes for Thomas

      “I already got mine,” Thomas replied, a dopey smile spreading across his face.

       James sighed. “That’s gay.”

       He couldn’t help but smile as well Thomas pulled him into what was definitely not the last kiss of the night.

* * *

 

      “Fucking _finally_ you rubbery piece of shit - do you know how long I’ve waited to draw this fucking piece of fecal matter that _pretends_ to be an animal?” John swore at the seal, which was happily resting on a rock, eyeing the water as the wheelchair bound boy cursed at it.

      “John, calm down.” Eliza rested against John’s wheelchair, pleasantly ignoring the string of profanity spewing out of the boy’s mouth.

    Maria and Angelica were oblivious to the whole scene. “Yeah, so I’m definitely doing the musical next year,” Maria was saying. “Also the new history teacher assigned this book to read over the summer. It seems kind of interesting; it’s a biography by this Lacamoire guy about the first secretary of treasury? Y’know, Li -”

      John waved his sketchbook around in his left hand, causing Maria to dodge as a colored pencil slipped from John’s fingers at the speed of a small blue rocket.

      “What’s wrong with it? I think it’s cute,” Peggy said, staring as the seal dove into the water.

      “No it’s **not** I hate it - turtles are way better! At least turtles don’t try and run away from _every single thing they see!”_ John hissed, scribbling out the sketch of the seal with furious vigor.

      “It has my _seal_ of approval,” Angelica added, sipping from a bottle of orange soda.

      _“No,”_ John groaned, continuing to stab the paper repeatedly with another pencil. After a few minutes of consideration and stabbing paper, John proclaimed, with utmost sincerity, “I’ve decided. I’m going to fight this seal.”

      “Has anybody seen Aaron and Alex?” Eliza asked, deciding to ignore John’s declaration.

      “Probably making out behind the crab display. That’s what the two of us did when we dated.”

      “John,” Angelica deadpanned.

      “Also sometimes the octopus display.”

      “ _John,_ ” Angelica pleaded.

      Eliza looked up from her phone, sounding almost concerned. “Oh, really? He never went here with me; it was always Central Park.”

      “Really? We went to the aquarium all the time!” John said, looking up from his paper.

      Angelica looked around at the small group. “… Are Peggy and I the only ones here who _haven’t_ kissed Alexander Hamilton?”

      Eliza, Laurens, and Maria looked at each other, then at Angelica.

      “Okay then,” Angelica said, turning back to her soda.

* * *

 

      They were making out behind the _penguin_ display, thank you very much. A particularly curious rockhopper had sidled up to the glass and was watching the two humans with interest, most likely wondering why the taller one seemed to be trying to suck the smaller one’s face off, before something else caught its attention, prompting a dive back into the water.

      Aaron, oblivious to fact that they were inviting so much animal attention, trailed kisses down Alex’s jaw so he could lavish attention on the other boy’s neck. He revelled in the little breathless noises he was able to draw out, smiling as he moved to kiss Alex on the cheek.

      His lips came away wet.

      He pulled away quickly. Alex had averted his eyes and was furiously attempted to wipe the tears from his face. “Gee, am I really that bad at this?” Aaron said, trying to lighten the mood, but Alex didn’t so much as chuckle in response.

      “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” he mumbled.

      “Aw, hey, don’t think about that,” Aaron replied lamely.

      “I have to,” Alex snapped. “I have to think about it. What are we gonna do?”

      “I’ll come visit,” Burr said. “I can always shack up with the Schuylers, and you know my sister won’t pass up an opportunity to meet you. I can probably even convince my aunt and uncle to let me spent all summer in New York.”

      “I know,” Alex grumbled, blinking away the last of the tears. “It just feels like everyone is leaving, you know? You, Angelica, Herc, Laf, God, even Jefferson. Don’t tell him I said that.”

      “I won’t,” Aaron promised, reaching to push a strand of hair out of Alex’s face.

      “Good.”

      “We’ll figure it out, you know.”

      “Hmph.”

      “I’m serious. Me going to college isn’t going to change anything. If I know anything about you, it’s that you’re stubborn as hell.”

      That got a small smile. “You think so?”

      Burr took a breath and smiled back. “You’re worth waiting for.”

 

THE END*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap, folks!
> 
> *stay tuned for deleted scenes, artwork, and explanations of historical references
> 
>  
> 
> AA: leave a comment if you enjoyed!!

**Author's Note:**

> these sins cannot be erased

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Alex Ham the Orchestra Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7127453) by [sarabande_onthecello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarabande_onthecello/pseuds/sarabande_onthecello)




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